Rachel Dawes
by Scruffy-looking
Summary: In the wake of Rachel's death, Bruce Wayne struggles to move on. In doing so, he must face his deepest fears, and find courage to embrace his highest hopes. A sequel to The Dark Knight.
1. Chapter 1

**Rachel Dawes**

* * *

1  
grief

* * *

Longtime residents called it autumn swirls: when summer was about to die and the temperature began to fall, the winds blowing in from the west would run into the barriers of the City's towers, causing things caught in the backdraft to tumble wildly in the air. Paper and trash picked up from the streets, mixed in with colorful leaves blown in from the suburbs.

Some of the leaves blowing through Gotham that early Saturday afternoon had come from the neatly trimmed lawns in Easterville, a small suburb just east of the Pallisades that was far enough from Gotham to present an image of ineffable normality, but close enough to the Dark City that an outside observer could chart its indirect effects on the men and women living there as they went about their daily lives. Despite their friendly demeanors and warm greetings to each other, as the day went on they seemed to lose a step, as if something invisible was holding them back, making them hesitate. Only as the daylight dimmed and the night rose to ascendancy did their motions quicken, perhaps conscious of the need to settle affairs and retreat to the safety of their homes before the dark tide washed over them.

But that was for later; at present, the day couldn't be any more perfect. Here and there children played in the front lawns of Easterville's houses while their parents maintained a watchful eye on their every moves. Occasionally a car or truck would move down the straight and narrow streets. One pulling around the corner took its time, carefully navigating roads a half-size too small for it.

The black sedan pulled up to a small white house perched on a slight hill. From the driver side a kindly old man, his white hair whipped about by the winds, got out and opened the left rear door. Another man, younger, stepped out and squinted into the bright sun. His black curls did not sway at all; the wind and the unseen shroud parted ways for him, as if knowing they could not weigh him down. Clothed in a charcoal suit, he walked up the incline to the front door of the house, moving at a pace that was unhurried but unhindered, as if gravity or fear could not slow him.

The man's hand reached for the doorbell, then froze in midair. He then knocked, three times. Some moments later, the door opened. A small middle-aged woman, her hair flecked with grey, stood there. Her eyes were glazy and distant, looking at him, but not seeing at first.

She freed herself from her prison of grief: "Bruce." Then old reflexes kicked in. "Forgive me, Mister Wayne—"

"—No, please. I'm so sorry—"

With those words the woman broke down completely. She began to weep; he took her, holding her tightly. He didn't even try to keep his own eyes from tearing up. They both sniffed simultaneously, and stepped away. Inside, he saw other figures, clothed in black, standing to greet him. It was a reaction to his station that he always hated, but did not react.

"Please, come in."

Mrs. Dawes reentered the house, and Bruce Wayne and Alfred followed her inside.

* * *

The funeral was the next day. Unlike yesterday the skies were now cloudy, with a damp vibe to the air that hinted of coming rain.

Bruce Wayne stood a fair distance from the family, doing his best to be inconspicious. Unlike at the memorial service last night, he was more successful, but perhaps that was only because yesterday was the occasion where Rachel was mourned as a casualty of the Joker's rampage, as so many other public servants of Gotham City had been. Hundreds had filled the pews of St. Francis' Cathedral in Gotham City, among them many public officials paying dues to a fallen colleague.

During that long night, it was hard to look at her parents, and harder to look at the casket with a cheery photo of Rachel perched atop it. Hardest of all was crafting and speaking the very short memorandum he'd been asked to say. Bruce kept it completely professional, sparing only a sentence referring to their childhood connections, then focusing entirely on her public-minded spirit, her bravery during the attack on Gotham by the League of Shadows (for everyone's benefit, the less said of her brief stint as DA and the Green Dawn incident which ended it, the better). If he were a more loquacious man, he could have said tomes of what he really felt. But those thoughts would go with him to his grave.

Today was for close friends and immediate family. Although there was nothing of the public spectacle and attention of yesterday, it was even more uncomfortable for Bruce, for his mere presence could conceivably hint at a deeper connection to her than was safe for everyone involved. Of course, her parents vigorously insisted he be here, but after all that had happened, all that led up to her death, he almost decided to turn up the obnoxious playboy image and decline. It had almost led to a shouting match with Alfred; in the end, the hot look of contempt on his face when he tried to explain why it would be better for him not to come had shamed him into relenting. _God, I hope I never get him upset at me like that again._

Then Bruce realized he had precious few people left in his life now who could get to him like that. That bitter realization removed all doubts.

Still, he felt nervous. The police had discretely secured the area, but they were all achingly vulnerable. _If anything happens to her family or friends…_ Bruce's eyes darted about to the surroundings, watching for anything out of the ordinary. But so far the day had went by…well was the wrong word. _Nothing bad, so far. Maybe that's all I can hope for these days._

The priest had finished saying his words. He had not paid close attention; he only hoped they would give Rachel's loved ones comfort. He had no expectation they would have such effect with him. Four pallbearers, one of them her father, Tanner, another a college friend, and two cousins, lowered her casket into the grave. Try as he might, he could not help but remember the police had recovered little if any of her remains. Flower in hand, he got in line to pay final respects. When he tossed the white lily in, he did not look inside.

After it was over, people began to leave, heading for the wake being held in a small conference hall nearby. Although Bruce did not want to come to the funeral at first, having done so he felt a strange compulsion to go to the wake. This would be the last time he would get a chance to see Rachel's closest associates up close—in a way, he hoped it would give him a chance to know Rachel a little better.

In the year and change since coming back to Gotham, Bruce had gone some distance towards reacquainting himself with Rachel. Still, it was painfully obvious there was a lot about her that he didn't know, and he had disciplined himself from using his new detective skills from trying to learn any more. Fortunately, Alfred had been an invaluable resource, for he had maintained off-and-on contacts with her in his absence. More importantly, Bruce realized that Alfred knew a lot about Rachel from their days growing up, memories that were hazy from age and the overwhelming tragedy which had blotted out so much else from that period of his life. In the dark days since Rachel's death, one of the only sources of comfort was Alfred painstakingly helping to fill in the gaps.

In the distance he saw the still-massive form of Clinton Polawski, ill-fitting in his suit, closely-cropped red hair an unspoken concession to advancing baldness. Many years ago, to be this close to him in the same room would have provoked violence; now, with so many years and events between them, it seemed almost ridiculous that they had fought so. _Although if I didn't beat him up, perhaps I never would have become what I am doomed to be..._

Bemused by the memories of his turbulent adolescence, he was almost caught unawares by an attractive, serious blond woman walking up to him. "Hello, Mister Wayne," she said to him.

"Hi, Miss… Teasdale, is it?" The woman nodded. Dara Teasdale was Rachel's closest friend from Gotham Law School and a corporate attorney with the Davidson International Group. She was one of the three people besides himself and her cousin Emily to give eulogies.

"We wanted to thank you for your kind words yesterday." She gestured to a large group of young men and women speaking in the distance, all attractive and elegantly-dressed. _Rachel's friends from college and law school._ None of them were familiar.

"What, that?" Bruce said, unable to hide an unexpected annoyance. The words spilled out of him: "It was terrible, I should have worked on it more." _Shut up! What are you doing? Don't make it about yourself!_ He tried not to fidget.

Teasdale seemed taken aback, but quickly recovered. "No, no, Mister Wayne, not at all! First, you've probably known her longer than anyone else. And besides, we all appreciate you taking the time to pay your respects."

"Yeah, uh, thanks." She was right; Bruce could remember as far back as when he was six, meeting Rachel for the first time. _But I didn't really know her that well, do I?_ "What was she like, in law school?"

Dara sighed, then said: "Kinda standoffish, in the beginning. You know, I was very surprised when I began to know her she didn't want to be a lawyer at first."

"I know, she wanted to be a psychiatrist." Bruce winced inwardly at the memory of that… strained conversation from the end of high school.

Teasdale was very surprised. "Right, wow, you knew that?"

"Just something I picked up from a professional introduction," he said hurriedly.

"Yeah, well, she was very calm, but she was unbelievably passionate about law and helping people," Dara said. "Top student of course, she had her choice of careers with the big firms in Gotham, New York, DC." Bruce nodded, showing no reaction; that was another sore point, although much more with Rachel's father.

"Tell me about her personal side," Bruce said with ill-concealed urgency.

Dara sniffed. "That's the thing. She seemed reserved at first, but when you got to know her, she was very friendly—always loyal." Bruce tried not to sniff himself. "If you were stressed or worried about something, she'd always do something on her own initiative, like have dinner delivered or your laundry done." She paused. "When I was having trouble with Henry, she set things up so we could have time together alone in the apartment one weekend. Took care of everything." She paused again. "I really miss her," she breathed.

"Yeah, it's a shame." Dara looked at him, puzzled; perhaps she did not expect such a perfunctory expression of grief. _Did Rachel ever tell her about us?_ He personally doubted it, but now he wondered. In any case, it was safer for him—and her—if she didn't suspect.

Dara continued: "She always spoke highly of you, Mister Wayne. If you ever want to talk about things, just give me a call. Take care." She gave him her business card, shook his hand, and walked away in a bare hurry. Bruce was even more suspicious now. _Maybe Rachel did hint about us? Or maybe she's just networking and trying to build connections for her firm._ He chided himself for his cynical outtake. Still, his heart had warmed to hear the story Dara had told. _Rachel always went the extra mile to help people in need_.

Suddenly someone slapped him in the back; he almost threw a punch on reflex. "Hey, Bruce," a slightly slurred voice said. He relaxed and turned about.

"Hello Mister Dawes," Bruce said to Rachel's father, Tanner Dawes. He was somewhat shorter than him, his face weathered and tough, with thin sandy hair. Rachel had his general facial structure, which had become clear to Bruce only after repeated viewings. "How are you coping, sir?"

"Terribly," he said sourly in a clipped New England accent. His face had a strange expression: part grief, part anger, part frustration. "Her mother's in denial, but facts are facts."

"Um," Bruce said noncommittally. He knew that Rachel's parents had separated not long after she was born, and that Rachel's relationship with her father ever since had been… 'anxious' was her word for it.

The drink in his hand was a reminder of what had led to her less-than-happy family life. "May I ask you something, man to man," he whispered.

"Of course."

Tanner came close to him, a sudden unmistakable menace in his demeanor. "Just tell me one thing: after you came back, did Rachel ever ask you for a position at Wayne Enterprises, and if so, did you say no?"

Bruce tensed; all of a sudden, he was his shadow persona. "No and no," he said harshly, his voice and eyes suddenly hard.

Perhaps intimidated by the vibe Bruce was giving off, Tanner's hard gaze eased. Backing off slightly, he said: "Alright, ok, I believe you." His eyes narrowed again. "If I didn't, I don't care how rich you are, you'd be one sorry son-of-a-bitch." He fell silent; when he resumed speaking, his voice was despondent. "I kept telling her not to take up a fool's errand, to take care of business and not try to save the world," he said gloomily. "Now it's too late." He looked down at his drink. "Sometimes, you only get one chance, and if you don't take it…" His voice fell off into indistinct noise. "That's what happened with Anne," he mumbled. "With Rachel. I told her, you gotta grab it when you can, but she never listened. She didn't take it…" No longer paying attention to Bruce, he shuffled away, shaking his head.

Bruce was tempted to get a drink himself; his angry words only hinted at the long, painful relationship between Rachel and her father—and himself. Moreover, he knew that if Tanner knew the truth of his feelings for Rachel, far from being a comfort to him, they would have provoked a furious, deadly rage. _If you loved her,_ he would scream, _why didn't you take her away from her foolish choice of career? _And if he had known about his _real_ persona, it would be even worse: _Why didn't you _save_ her? _A question that would haunt Bruce to his dying day.

_Sometimes, you only get one chance…_ Now Bruce was depressed, an all-too familiar feeling these days. Quietly, he slipped away.

* * *

It was dark outside as Alfred drove Bruce Wayne back to the Manor. The structure was not yet fully complete, but enough parts had been finished and furnished that they could leave the apartment in the City behind. _Just as well,_ Alfred though gloomily. _Too many bad memories there._ Considering Bruce's unhappy life in Wayne Manor since the death of Thomas and Martha Wayne, that was saying something—something not good.

"Will you be going out tonight, sir?"

From behind, Bruce Wayne chuckled softly. "Little late to go out clubbing."

His stab at humor relieved Alfred. "Perhaps, sir. But not too late to go out 'clubbing' _someone_, someone who deserves it," he said wolfishly.

Bruce did not respond at first. "What's the use," he said quietly.

Resisting a sigh, once more Alfred tried to lift his spirits. "You make a difference, sir."

"And every night, what do I have to come back to, after saving a world that hates me?" The way he said those words was not angry, or emotional. On the contrary, he seemed reserved, tentative… _defeated?_

Alfred did not hesitate. "Your legacy, sir. The one everyone sees, and the one everyone knows about."

"All things come to an end," Bruce said curtly. "Even legacies die."

"Your legacy… the Wayne's legacy, will endure forever, sir. That's the truth of great symbols such as yourself."

"Maybe," Bruce said, his voice sounding infinitely weary. "But the day is coming—I hope it doesn't come forever, but it's coming—when you will no longer be by my side. You and I both know you're the real linchpin behind it all."

"Hmph." Despite the humorous remark, Alfred considered it an affront to be reminded so brusquely of his own mortality. _That's not something an English gentleman brings up in civilized conversation. _Of course, he had chosen a different path long ago… and Bruce Wayne, deep down, was not a gentleman. _I love him like a son, but sometimes he's very much a rough diamond. _Nevertheless, he tried to be positive. "You're strong, sir, stronger than anyone I know. You won't need me to carry on the Wayne legacy."

There was no reply. Alfred looked back; Bruce's eyes were closed. Alfred accepted his nonresponse and continued to drive in silence. Minutes later, Bruce spoke: "Unfortunately, there is something I cannot do alone, no matter how strong I am." Glancing back, Bruce had opened his eyes and was smiling sadly at Alfred. At that moment, Bruce looked old beyond his years.

Not wanting to know, Alfred ventured: "What's that, sir?"

There was a terrifying finality to Bruce's voice as he answered, so softly he was barely audible: "Because I let Rachel die, one day in the future… the Wayne's legacy will die with me as well." Stunned by the midnight import of his words, his deathly calm acceptance of the possible extinction of his line, there was simply nothing Alfred could say.

He drove back to Wayne Manor without saying a word, each man locked inside a silent prison of his own thoughts.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

2  
denial

* * *

"So, here we are."

"Here we are…"

"…Ok…So… Just point me towards the ladies' room, and I'll get myself ready for tonight."

"You don't look like you need to do too much for that."

"Thanks. I like to flaunt it—especially when I'm with you. You saw it; everyone looking at us tonight now knows what you're gonna get to have."

"Yeah—oh, wait; crap."

"What's wrong?"

"You know, my head is totally screwed up. Too much to drink at the show."

"Really, did you have that much?"

"'Fraid so, darling. Let's call it a night, ok?"

"Well… I… you know… all you'll have to do is lie back and enjoy. Just look; see? You can put it right here—"

"—that's very nice, but no. Have a good evening."

"Alright. Bye."

"Bye."

* * *

Like he did often these days, Bruce woke up sheathed in a cool sweat. Haggard and exhausted though he was, trudging off to work would be a relief compared to what greeted him every night.

Bruce Wayne was sitting on the nearly-complete porch of Wayne Manor, looking out east towards Gotham City, idly sipping a cup of coffee. It was nearly dark, the last glows of light quickly fading behind him. He had been there for almost an hour.

Alfred came up quietly behind him. "Will you be going out tonight, sir?"

"No," he replied curtly.

"It's been almost ten days. That's a record for you, sir."

"I've been out of action longer than that."

"Only when you've been shot, or had your ribs broken." Alfred's reply was almost bemused.

Bruce laughed, despite himself. "Batman is on the shelf for the foreseeable future."

"So it seems." He sounded disappointed.

His head jerked around. "_Batman_ is wanted for the murder of three police officers, Alfred." He couldn't stop himself, even though he'd said it before. "Our beloved mayor and every law enforcement body within a hundred miles of here is pursuing every lead tracking us—_us,_ remember. There's a $250,000 bounty on my head—sorry, I heard on the radio, it's up to a half-million now." Finally, Bruce stopped talking, disgusted with himself and the state of things. He turned away decisively. "We're staying low until I figure out our next move."

"You chose the path of the avenger, sir. Everything you fought for, you sacrificed for, will be at risk if you walk away."

"The symbol is still alive," Bruce noted. His image was mud in the media, but he'd expected that. Every day on the news police officers offered their view of what they would do to him if he ever got caught. The remarks of good officers pained him; the comments of dirty ones almost made him want to give them what they wanted. But it was what the criminal world was saying—or not saying—that kept him from giving up completely. Someone—he was sure it was Gordon—had leaked to the press the confession of a hoodlum of Maroni's who'd been taken in right after he went on the run. He'd claimed that the surviving mob bosses believed Batman had 'gone rogue'; some of them, he'd claimed, believed the Batman the Joker were two of a kind, in this together. _Completely wrong…yet almost right._

Looking out again, that hateful image came up again: white-splashed face, greasy green hair, scarred red lips, leering. _A man who revels in chaos, destruction, violence for the sheer sake of it. _In many ways, his total opposite…yet in their opposition, there was something horribly similar, beyond the ability of words to describe. _Like looking at myself through a twisted mirror._

"It will become harder with each passing day, Master Wayne."

"When the time is right. No sooner, no later," Bruce replied. He said nothing else.

A warm hand rested on his shoulder; Bruce flinched. Alfred sighed as he sat down next to him. "This is about Rachel, isn't it?"

Bruce flinched again. "Rachel's dead, Alfred," he said quietly, not facing him. "Her problems are over. Ours are just beginning."

"I agree." He then looked at Alfred, whose expression was scrutinizing. "And until you stop looking back, you will not be able to move forward with what you must do."

"I'm not looking back," Bruce snapped.

"Miss Jessica Watters might disagree."

Bruce winced inwardly. "Alright, that was a mistake." Not three days after the wake, Bruce had called up the buxom young actress, eager to show the world that Bruce Wayne had no romantic affiliations with Rachel Dawes; that she was a childhood friend, but nothing more. He had indulged in the typical meaningless rituals: dinner, a show, drinks, braving the paparazzi. It was like a game, it had been so easy. But as soon as they were alone, he couldn't bear living up to the pretense; it made him feel hollow, when never before had he craved greater inner substance. Hastily he had to feign intoxication to get Miss Watters out of his house.

To his surprise the tabloids did not pick up anything of the debacle; she had not leaked, when she easily could have impugned his sexuality. Beautiful women and their agents constantly sought his audience. But he dared not even talk to them, lest they would be able to see his pain, and put two and two together.

"Women are not a priority now," Bruce reiterated. "We need to get back to work figuring out how to save Gotham."

"No offense, Master Wayne, there is more to save in this world than Gotham."

"Maybe, but Gotham comes first."

Alfred nodded and stood up. "Then, will you be going out tonight, sir?"

Bruce hesitated. "Yes. Yes, I will."

"Very good, sir. I'll get things ready." Alfred went inside. With a moment's hesitation, he followed.

* * *

The familiar feel of the suit enveloped him once more. In the damp stillness of the Cave, he turned to face Alfred. "How do I look?"

"Familiar. I never thought I'd say that, but it's true."

"Thanks." He turned away, heading for the Batpod. Then he stopped: in front of him was a long empty table. _The one I put Rachel on, when she was dying of Crane's toxin. Dying…_

"Master Wayne? Bruce?"

Bruce was frozen for the longest time. Finally, he deliberately unsealed the cowl and removed it. He looked at Alfred, who looked back at him. Without saying a word, he turned around and returned to the mansion.

* * *

…_Not for the first time, Bruce dreamed of what the experience was like…_

…_Harvey had been tied up to a chair, surrounded by barrels. Probably that's how Rachel was being held. But then again, maybe not. Perhaps her captors had her hanging from the ceiling. Maybe they had her laying spread-eagle on the floor… _

…_Did they say anything to each other? He remembered vaguely seeing something like a radio near Harvey. It would have been just like the Joker to have them in contact with each other, so they could hear each other's fear. 'Don't worry Rachel, it'll be okay…' 'Harvey, if we die, I want to tell you something…' 'No, not me, why did you come after me?!?_

…_What was she thinking? 'Why, Bruce? Why?'_

_Why?_

—Bruce Wayne snapped upright, like a coiled spring. He looked down; his hands were shaking. He smoothly pulled the sheets off of him and sat at the edge of the bed, his face firmly planted in the palms of his hands…

…Weeping…

_

* * *

This is my memory of the first time I met Rachel._

_I was five or six. Back then I remember our house. Lots of rooms. Big stairs. I didn't have any brothers or sisters. There were a few kids when I was growing up. Don't remember their names. Some of them were older than me. One guy, with black hair, I think we fought. He called me names, but I don't remember what. I'm pretty sure their parents were my parents friends. Mom would have company over in the house, and her friends came, bringing their kids. I think we played sometimes. One time I remember seeing a baby. I think I pulled her hair, that made her cry. Mom yelled at me._

_It was summertime when Rachel and her family moved in. I think some of the help had kids living in the manor grounds, but they were all older. I sort of remember them, I think I was scared because they were bigger. But we never played, I'm sure of that. Rachel was different. Mom took me outside to meet them. I think Rachel's mom was holding her hand too. "Bruce, this is Rachel" Mom said, I think. I do remember she held her arm out to shake hands. Mom pushed me a little, and I think we shaked hands._

_After that, we went to the toy room, where I had lots of toys. I had trains, cars, balls, blocks, and other stuff. We sat down and started playing with toys. I think I threw a block at her, and hit her. She threw something at me. We were throwing lots of things around. We chased each other. My Mom came and yelled at me._

_Another day, I showed her my room. I definitely remember jumping on the bed. We jumped a lot with our shoes on. Mom yelled at me for that._

_We played outside a lot that summer. We made piles of dirt and rocks. Sometimes we used a water slide and the spray fountain. It was lots of fun. We fought a lot, but then my Dad yelled at me, told me to play nice with girls. Mom said she was family, don't hurt her. I do remember saying I'm sorry to her. We still fought a lot, but we also had lots of fun together, exploring the house and the area around it. _

_When it was fall, I went back to the Day school, and Rachel attended a parochial school, I think. We played a little in the afternoon, but when we were in school we only played on Saturdays._

* * *

Bruce put the pen down and reviewed his scribblings. A lot of it was fragmentary, almost impressionistic. It brought back memories of grammar lessons from way back. Despite all that, he felt an odd sense of release, as if something had been drained from him. It almost read like an eight-year old's writings, but then again he had never been a masterful prose writer.

_That doesn't matter. _He had a lifetime of thoughts about her, but they were all scattered, piecemeal, and in danger of disappearing. Now, at least, his memories would be preserved. _But preserved for what purpose? _That was a question for another day.

He looked outside; it was almost dawn. Bruce was exhausted, yet he felt refreshed at the same time, at least mentally. _I think I can have Alfred call in for me today._ Yawning, he jotted down a note and left it outside the bedroom door. Returning to bed, he quickly fell asleep.

* * *

The next day was a Thursday. Bruce went to work, paying considerably more attention to Wayne Enterprise business than he had in the past week. No major crises, and no major opportunities to pursue, so he spent most of the day talking things over with Lucius. _Damage control in more ways than one. _At first, there was a chilly distance between himself and Fox. It was no surprise, but it was only today that he realized that part of it was from his side: prompted by his irrational reaction to Lucius' condolences for Rachel's death. _I thought he was being insincere_, he remembered, but now he realized that she had no special connection to him, unlike Alfred. Too much had been happening to expect him to be torn up about her, and Bruce now understood that.

_Of course, that still leaves the cellphone sonar controversy as a reason for him to be pissed off at me_, he thought morosely. To his great relief Lucius had come back to work the day after the Joker had been apprehended and the surveillance machine self-destructed, but initially Fox's demeanor around Bruce could only be described as stiff and unfriendly. Fortunately, once he had demonstrated that his renunciation of the surveillance tech was genuine, it seemed he was not the man to hold a grudge.

"Is there anything else we need to worry about?" Bruce asked in conclusion after their two hour meeting.

Fox shook his head. "No, I think that takes care of everything," he said confidently. "Our security measures were put to the ultimate test, and so far none of the many investigations of Batman have locked on to our trail."

Bruce sighed in relief. "That doesn't mean we can rest on our laurels, sir," Fox said reproachfully.

"Understood. Keep up the good work."

"And you, too, sir. In all respects." Bruce's smile faded a bit – he still wasn't where he needed to be internally to ride the night again.

Bruce returned to his office, where the sun was beginning to set over the spires of Gotham. While he was reading some reports, the phone rang. "Who is it?"

His secretary answered: "Mister Wayne, it's a Miss Emily Schoenfield who wishes to speak to you."

Bruce sat up. _Rachel's cousin._ "Put her through." The phone clicked. "Hello, Emily?"

"Good afternoon, Mister Wayne." It was her voice, alright. "How are you?"

"Good, good. How may I help you?"

"I wanted to ask a favor of you." She sounded nervous.

He spoke reassuringly, sympathetically – an uncommon tone of voice for him. "Of course, anything. What can I do?"

"Mister Wayne, would you be able to come over to my place this Saturday? I wanted to talk to you about Rachel."

An icy chill flowed through his veins. He made his voice causal. "In what way?"

"I last talked with Rachel a few months ago. She mentioned you, a lot. I wanted to share it with you in person." She paused. "I think now is finally the right time."

Bruce steadied himself. "Okay." He thought quickly. "I can come over at ten in the morning. Does that work?"

"Yes, thank you. I'll see you then."

"Good-bye, Emily." She hung up, leaving Bruce alone to churn.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want me to drive you over?"

"No, take the day off. I want to be discrete, and this is the best way."

"Alright, then. Please send her my regards."

"Of course, Alfred." With that, Bruce closed the window and started the engine. He left the grounds of Wayne Manor in a weathered nondescript two-door sedan, and wearing a rare assemblage of sweatshirt, jeans, sneaker and baseball cap. Sunglasses completed the disguise; any passerby would think he was on his way to the ballgame.

As he drove north of Gotham to where Emily lived, a rising sense of anticipation filled him. Over and over he wondered: _What did Rachel really think of me?_ He thought he knew, but that moment in his apartment was so charged, so confused, he no longer trusted his impressions of what happened.

Pulling up to her petite white house in this quiet northern suburb, Bruce commanded himself to relax. _She's just as likely to want to know how you related to Rachel up till…_ Minding the dangers that still existed, he commanded himself not to say anything, even if Emily insisted she knew something about them. _Better to make sure she tells Rachel's parents nothing was going on between them…_ The plan was solid, but it didn't make Bruce feel any better.

He walked up to the door and pressed the buzzer. There was no response. He knocked a couple times, then the intercom went on. "Who is it?"

_Uh, Bruce Wayne? _"It's me, Bruce."

"Come in, I'm in the kitchen making lunch. The door's open."

"Huh." He reached for the door, and it was unlocked. He walked inside; there was a short corridor inside, with the kitchen at the other end.

"Hi Emily, thanks for inviting me," Bruce called out. "It's very kind of you to make lunch, there was no need—" Bruce stopped talking as he entered the kitchen; there was no one there.

"Emily? Where are you?"

"Here, Bruce," a woman's voice, not Emily's responded. Instantly Bruce whirled about, but as he did so multiple darts shrieked across the kitchen and slammed into him. Immediately he went numb; his legs buckled, and he toppled to the hard linoleum floor.

_What an idiot I am! _His vision blurred; he was looking upwards, the white walls quickly fading to black. Several dark-clad figures, indistinct, were rapidly fading from view, as was that of a woman, much taller than Emily, her hair a dark black instead of sandy brown. Her face was the last thing he saw before passing into unconsciousness; it was completely unfamiliar, except for something…

…_Idiot!_…

* * *

Slowly Bruce returned to the world. He was in a large, very ornate room, smooth grey stone under his feet, with large pillars evenly spaced throughout. It was filled with exotic tapestries and wall paintings and sculptures. _Asian? Middle Eastern?_ He wasn't sure. Gingerly he got to his feet. Everything seemed a bit hazy. Time seemed a step slow for some reason; he attributed to whatever it was they used to knock him out.

"Anyone there? What do you want?"

"Your attentive presence suffices for the moment."

"What?" For a second Bruce was confused; he recognized that voice, but it couldn't be what it sounded like. He turned on his feet. In front of him was a large throne-like chair, elevated above the floor on a raised platform. In it sat Ra's al-Gul.

As he formulated the thought he rejected it out of hand. _Impossible!_

"Not impossible, merely improbable. Or more accurately, irrational."

Bruce did not react, still certain he was hallucinating. The physical appearance of whoever it was impersonating Ra's resembled him exactly: imposing height, penetrating dark eyes, an elegantly-trimmed salt and pepper goatee. But he was wearing something unusual. It looked like something out of a Shakespeare play, or a renaissance festival – black and purple coiffed regalia akin to what royalty wore, with a flowing silk-lined maroon cape beneath him.

"Whoever you are, you've gone to a lot of effort to get me here," he said roughly, tired of the game. "No need to play tricks."

"You haven't gone anywhere, Bruce," the imposter responded in a still-perfect rendition of Ra's' voice. "This is a 'meeting of the minds' so to speak."

Bruce did not respond, throwing him a dirty look. He continued: "After I died—"

"—Ra's al Gul is dead!" Bruce yelled with uncontrollable fury. "Where am I? Where's Emily? If you hurt her in any way, I'll kill you—"

"Miss Schoenfield is unharmed. We merely 'persuaded' her to help us."

Bruce's fury subsided somewhat. _Unfortunately, this is not a dream – it doesn't work that way_. Although, he still felt that ineffable oddness, as if everything was running at three-quarters speed.

"Before you rudely interrupted—"

"—say, that's a real good costume," Bruce said nastily. "You're a bit late for Halloween, though. I'm sure there's another costume party somewhere, so I'll be sure to enter you in, you might win a door prize."

"I should have known," he said in a gentle tone of voice, almost fatherly. "Someone who is trapped in delusions as multi-faceted as yours would understandably be reluctant to accept the truth."

"Hey, you're the one pretending to be a dead guy, so don't talk to me about delusions!" Bruce laughed out loud, in the most sarcastic way he could muster.

"I want to help you, Wayne."

"You bastard, you're the one who needs help!" Bruce had finally lost patience; he leaped towards the imposter. Out of nowhere, dozens of guards suddenly appeared, brandishing submachine guns. Bruce stopped mere feet away from the man. Slowly, cautiously, he backed off.

The guards seemed to fade away into the shadows. "I want to help you deal with the grief of your lost love, Miss Dawes," he said softly.

"That's ridiculous," Bruce spat. "She was only a friend!"

The man smiled, a chilly penetrating half-grin that was suddenly all too familiar to Bruce. "To deal with loss, denial is no aid. You have to accept the truth: Rachel's death was your fault."

"No!" Bruce leaped at him again; this time, Ra's jumped out of his chair before Bruce could get him. Moving off to the side, he brutally kicked at the base of his spine, sending him tumbling to the ground with a sickening crunch. Pain overwhelmed him, but he recovered quickly, rolling over and getting back on his feet. Ra's was now some distance away, out of reach. He stood ramrod straight, arms folded in front of him, shaking his head.

"Before we begin, have I convinced you that I am who I say I am?"

"Who you say you are is dead!" Bruce snarled. "I saw Ra's die!"

"You did indeed. But for one such as me, death is merely an inconvenience."

"I don't believe in the afterlife or fairytales like that!"

"For one such as you trapped in the myth of rationality, you are correct. But there are other truths, older ones, greater ones. In the past, some people learned not to surrender to the wiles of death as easily as the people of the present times do."

"Let me guess, you have a resurrection chamber, right? A magical incantation that brings people back to life?"

"Not far from the truth, Bruce. If it helps you accept it, it is indeed magical. That's what I first thought, seven hundred years ago."

Bruce did not respond. "After I died in that train crash, my minions recovered my remains and brought me here. It is a long, slow, and agonizing process, but I am used to the ordeal by now. But I am not fully restored yet. That is why we are communicating through our collective unconsciousness."

"Great, you try to convince me you're alive again, now you say not quite! Which is it?"

Ra's sighed. "Both and neither. The process of rebirth takes years, but I could not wait, I had to speak to you at once when I learned of events in Gotham."

"How could you learn of things if you're still dead—sorry, 'almost' dead?"

"I have my ways. But this meeting is not about me. I've summoned you to discuss your future."

"Then you wasted your time, because I'm not rejoining the League of Shadows, and Rachel was only a friend."

"'Only a friend,'" Ra's repeated in a bemusing tone of voice which only enraged Bruce further. "Do you normally leap out of twenty story buildings, for someone who is 'only a friend'?"

_How did he know that?_ "I save people who are in danger—"

"My dear Bruce Wayne," Ra's said patiently, "your penchant for lying to yourself is a habit you must urgently break. I know all about your past, all about your actions since your return to Gotham. Most of all, I know you, from personal observation." He smiled. "I am the greatest observer of human character of all time. Men do not save the world for abstract reasons."

Bruce desperately fought to regain control. "I suppose you're the exception!" he said hotly.

To his surprise, Ra's shook his head. "Of course not. The death of my wife has been a motivating factor for me ever since. I do what I must for the sake of my progeny, as well as everyone else's."

Despite himself, Bruce puzzled over his words. _Does Ra's have children? _Ra's fell silent for some time. Then he continued: "You are flesh and blood, just as I am. You move to the same currents and beats that every human being does. Rachel Dawes was your last, best hope for regaining a life which you had renounced when you put on that mask. But you didn't realize that the mask could never be enough, did you?" He stared at Bruce again. "Why else did you try to raise Dent to become Gotham's savior?

_Because I wanted to be with Rachel. _"Because he could do what I could not as Batman."

Ra's nodded slowly. "You admit that truth—that's a start. But Bruce, why then did you choose to let Harvey Dent die, instead of Rachel?"

"Dent knew the risks—"

"The Batman may say that, but would Bruce Wayne? Miss Dawes was a public servant as well, did she not also know the risks?"

"There was no time—"

"—to choose, yes, yes. But you underestimated your foe." Now Ra's' face became stern. "You had become accustomed to using physical force to overawe your opponents. You did not anticipate a different response, and when faced with one, you failed to adapt."

"The Joker was crazy, no one could handle him—"

"Excuses! You are doing it again, Bruce, rationalizing." He started to circle him. "The Joker used the appearance of unpredictability to maneuver his victims to where he wanted. How could you fall for such an obvious strategem? More than once, even?"

"He had people inside helping him, dirty cops—"

"—yet you failed to take precautions. Having captured the Joker after your theatrical chase through downtown Gotham, no doubt you patted yourself on the back and lit a victory cigar, believing you had beaten the man," Ra's sneered. "For a man who has taken up the mantle of a vigilante, you show bizarre faith in the corrupt leaders of society!"

The words of Ra's—if it really was him—were starting to hit home. It made Bruce want to beat his skull in, but he recognized the tactic now (the Joker having fatally fooled him before with it). It made it no easier to endure, however. "One man can't do it all by himself. He has to trust others to do what's right."

"Men like your associate Commissioner Gordon, no doubt." Bruce used every tool of self-discipline not to react to his words. _How does he know this? Is it a lucky guess, or does he have me completey under his thumb?_ "You are correct in one sense: order must be upheld by authority that is beyond reproach."

"But no one alive meets your exacting standards," Bruce retorted. "So you think the ultimate solution is to destroy every government, and replace it with men like yourself, who no doubt won't be tempted to abuse your powers."

Ra's nodded slowly. "It is a desperate gambit, but times like today require drastic solutions. I am indeed one such individual who can be trusted to save the world from itself. And believe it or not, I have concluded you are another, very rare, person who could do so as well. Why do you refuse to take up the mantle which circumstances cry out for?"

"I'm fighting for what's right my way, the right way—"

"—the way of a vigilante?" Ra's _tsked-tsked_ him. "I'm afraid the results speak for themselves. If Dent was the savior, why did you kill him?"

_Because he wasn't Dent anymore, he was Two-Face._ The fact that he had killed Dent, even to save the life of Gordon's son, haunted him almost as much as Rachel's death.

"—excuse me, I misspoke. Why did you 'claim' to kill Dent and the others?" Ra's smiled the grin of the devil. "'I will not be an executioner, it's what separates us from them,' I remember you saying. And did you not tell me that you would never kill in the pursuit of justice?" He laughed harshly. "I won't even count the time you killed me!" He laughed again, a most unpleasant sound. "I conclude one of two things: either you have finally learned to do whatever is necessary; or you are covering up for the fact that Dent himself had done something so heinous that its revelation would have shattered the façade of legitimate authority in Gotham City. Which is it, Bruce?"

Bruce did not respond. _Ra's may be right, but I'll never give him the satisfaction, self-denial be dammed._

"It doesn't matter; either way, you have failed. First, by not eliminating the Joker immediately, you are responsible for the deaths of your beloved Rachel, and all the others who died afterwards." Bruce jerked involuntarily. "Second, you either killed Dent and those policemen and criminals or took the blame for it. In either case, your painfully-created symbol of the Batman has been shattered beyond repair. You can no longer help the people of Gotham behind a mask." Bruce jerked again. "And you should forget about any ideas of private charity. Even your combined wealth is but a drop in the bucket. It is purposeful action that is required, not the random flailing efforts of individuals, no matter how talented. The only way forward is clear." Ra's held out his hand. "Once again, I ask you to join me, to do what is necessary. If you do so, I promise that together, we can and will save our dying world. What say you, Bruce?"

Bruce was filled with equal parts rage and despair. Whether this man was Ra's or not didn't matter; he had ripped away far too many hidden bandages for Bruce to ever heal. _I failed—failed Rachel, failed Dent, failed Gotham._ He could deny it all he wanted, and Alfred was too discrete ever to say so publically, but that was the brutal, unflinching truth: he let the woman he loved, the only woman who could complete him and heal his wounds, die a horrible death; he killed (or maybe murdered, depending on the law) the man he hailed would save Gotham (for selfish and unselfish reasons), because the truth was that the Joker had won—had turned Dent into a monster, somehow.

_But I haven't failed Gotham! Not yet!_ True, he was hunted by the police, reviled and despised by authority, hated and feared by the public, but by making himself a symbol to be defeated, he had given Gotham the chance to unite for a greater purpose—and in doing so, gave the people of Gotham a chance to use their common strength, so often in the past dispersed through individual greed and cowardice, to fix things and make a better world for the future. _The situation may be unpleasant, now, but at least there's hope for them in the future, even if there never will be for Rachel and Harvey._

True, the vision Ra's asked him to work towards was compelling. _A world without enemies, without criminals. When we are in charge, everything would be perfect._ It was the great temptation_… _and the great folly of mankind. _The only way to the future is one step at a time. And we have to drag everyone—even the crooked, the greedy, and the wicked—along with us. Killing them won't get us there any faster._

It was completely beyond reason, but deep down Bruce accepted he was indeed speaking with the resurrected Ra's al Gul. _No one else could be more so beguiling, intelligent…or so deadly. _But what actually mattered at the moment was the future not the past. Bruce could see the endgame of Ra's' vision: a perfect world with himself in charge—and no else around, because they would have all been destroyed to achieve his vision. That made him dangerous, and someone to resist with all his strength. But it also made him, ultimately, a figure to be pitied.

Bruce sighed and shook his head. "The answer is again no."

Ra's stared at him for the longest time, a deepening fury etching into the lines of his face. "Let me be frank with you, _Bruce,_ since no one else has. Inside that strong body, that disciplined mind of yours, you are nothing but a scared eight-year old child." His voice was pure venom, a seething hatred boiling out of every word, no longer concealed by his typical placid demeanor. "Your personal trauma—which really is insignificant in the grander scheme of things—has left you a stunted, emotional cripple, trapped in your infantile wish to have Mommy and Daddy hold your hand and tell you everything is going to be okay. Your petty selfishness, your delusion that you can be both hot and cold water at the same time, cost you your chance at love and your supposed-chance to save Gotham." He was literally spitting his words now. "How can you save the world, if you cannot even save yourself?"

The words stung, but they no longer had power to hurt him—because he would not let them do so. Ra's took a step towards him, until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Bruce did not flinch at all.

"You are fortunate that I do not hold a grudge, that unlike you I am not consumed by petty desire for revenge," Ra's said, his voice still cold but now measured and controlled. "I will continue to seek justice in the only way possible. And against my better judgment, I will continue to extend the invitation for you to rejoin me. Until then, I will leave you to the path you have chosen for yourself." He stopped speaking, eyeing him over as if measuring Bruce for weakness. He continued: "By all means, continue trying to tinker with a dying system," he said flatly. "In the end, you will have no choice but to acknowledge I was right. And I will look forward to telling you so when you do."

"It's easy to save the world by destroying everything in it that you think isn't worth saving," Bruce replied softly. "Perhaps some of us prefer not to take the easy—or cowardly—way out."

Ra's scowled, and began to step back. "We shall meet again, Bruce Wayne. Prepare yourself well in the mean time."

He disappeared into the shadows; the darkness expanded, enveloping everything.

* * *

"Master Wayne? Can you hear me?"

Slowly, groggily, Bruce Wayne opened his eyes. "Ugh."

"Don't make any sudden movements, sir." Alfred slowly helped him up into a sitting position.

Bruce shook his head. "Where's Emily?"

"Miss Schoenfield has been taken to a hospital; we found her, unconscious, in her home, after we came to look for you."

"What? What time is it?"

"It's Sunday evening, sir." Bruce gaped in astonishment. "After you didn't come back, I came over to investigate, and you were missing. Lucius began looking for you as well. I almost called the police, but this afternoon, we received an anonymous phone call telling us you were here."

"Where's here?"

"An abandoned apartment on the South Shore," Alfred said. South Shore was a small neighborhood at the southernmost tip of Gotham City.

Bruce slowly got to his feet. "Thanks for coming for me."

"What happened, sir? Who did this to you?" Alfred's voice was urgent.

"It's a long story, I'll tell you later. Let's go home."

* * *

Several days later, it was still very much a mystery what had happened. Emily had told him that the day before she called, unknown assailants had broken into her home and forced her to do their bidding. They were completely nondescript, except for a woman who was 'tall, dark and beautiful', according to Emily. Bruce apologized profusely, telling her it was a blackmail scheme, which his personal guards had foiled at the last minute. He discretely paid her for her troubles, although she readily agreed to keep the story quiet from the press, police, or her family.

He thought long and hard about what happened, but there were no easy answers. _Obviously I wasn't hallucinating. _Still, the alternative was impossible: Ra's al Gul, back from the dead? Communicating by sayonce, or telepathy or whatever? _Just impossible._ And yet it happened. Not only that; he (they) knew things, secrets far beyond what even detailed investigation could reveal. Lucius had given him a checkover and found an unusual amount of hallucinogens in his blood, but nothing exotic or unusual, save for some white powdery stuff on his jacket that did not seem to have any pharmacological effect. Bruce didn't even bother telling Lucius what had happened; no doubt his rational mind would have dismissed it out of hand. _I would too, but after what happened, I just can't._

Bruce stepped up security procedures at Wayne Manor, although he secretly felt it was futile. _Ra's knows me too well; I'm simply too vulnerable._ His only hope was that, presumably, the League of Shadows could have struck him at any time over the past year, but had chosen not to do so; they merely 'detained' him to make another offer to rejoin, and released him when he didn't. _Perhaps at some level Ra's agrees with me, and wants to give me a chance to succeed?_ Nevertheless, he knew that it was only a temporary reprieve; one day, he was sure, they would meet again.

In the darkness, sleep was once again an elusive goal. It was one thing to renounce again Ra's' insane invitation to destroy the world in order to save it. Quite another to ignore his taunts of how his actions had led to Rachel and Harvey's deaths. _If only I hadn't underestimated the Joker,_ he thought morosely beneath closed eyes. Grief began to curdle inside, transmuting to hate. _He's still locked up in prison. It would be really easy—a few bribes here, a few bribes there, and I could pay him back for everything. Everything… _Of course, that wouldn't happen. _Tomorrow, I have to figure out how to get back on track._ Gotham could be saved, Bruce was sure of it.

_On the other hand, how to do it exactly, and whether it will ever be worth what I've paid for, personally, that I don't know._


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's note: I apologize for the long delay, but now that I've graduated from law school, I will try to finish all remaining fanfics over the summer._**  
**

_Warning: mature and disturbing content below. Reader's discretion strongly advised._

_

* * *

_

3  
anger

* * *

On his way to work that morning, a front-page article in the _Gotham Times _got Bruce's blood aboil:

**The Unknown 'Joker'**  
Gotham City psychiatrists attempt to unravel the mysteries of a mass-murderer  
By V. Vale

The prisoner in Room A122 of Arkham Asylum is never content to be at rest.

"He likes to move around," commented Dr. Strange, the new head of the facility, as he takes us on a visit to see Arkham's newest and most infamous resident. "Sometimes, he swipes at the air, as if there were invisible flies. Other times he just shakes his head back and forth, like a dog."

The prisoner, self-styled 'The Joker', has yet to reveal his real name, despite nearly a month in custody. The Joker today is relatively active. Having been granted a deck of playing cards, he has over a dozen of them lying face down on the floor. Sitting cross-legged, he shuffles them, with various degrees of intensity; at times with deliberate and precise movements, and other times with frantic and vicious movement. Through the bars to his cell, he is looking down at them, his now-dirty blond hair covering his face, paying no heed to us as we come up to visit.

After repeated admonitions to respond to us from Dr. Strange, the Joker stops his ceaseless shuffling. He looks up, his pale face marred by the unusual scars at each end of his mouth, which give the impression of a broad smile, even though his lips are turned down in a pout. Suddenly he reaches down, grabs the cards and tosses them in the air. He says in a cheerful voice: "Bad hand. You know how hard it is to pull a fast one on yourself?"

* * *

Despite the strong and unpleasant sensations the topic brought up, Bruce continued reading the article, looking for any information he might have missed. To his disappointment, there was little there he didn't already know or suspect. The Joker made it a point to behave unpredictably, which unnerved the staff and other inmates. He also had a habit of telling contradictory stories about himself. Bruce did note to some satisfaction that the Joker seemed more animated than what he had experienced; no matter what a person's mental state, continuous physical activity like the Joker exhibited was a draining phenomenon. _Either he's feeling the pressure of captivity, Bruce thought, or he really does have a few screws loose._

That latter prospect made him very unhappy, since the whole point of the detention was to determine whether he could stand trial for his crimes, or was legally insane. _It's all an act,_ Bruce growled to himself, and the Gotham criminal justice system, but according to the article some of the doctors believed he had a rare mental condition called 'stochastic action syndrome', where a person would uncontrollably engage in random acts, leaving him unable to have control over his own actions. 'SAS is almost impossible to mimic,' said a quoted psychiatrist in the article, 'because most people are incapable of truly acting randomly.'

_You never met the Joker,_ he thought sourly, but the comment concerned him. _If there's anyone who could use madness to hide his methods, it's _him. And the thought that…_he_…had put in his head, that the Joker used random acts to catch his enemies off balance, worried him even more. _If the Joker is truly unpredictable, even when he's scheming, that's a decisive edge for him._

Bruce had wondered whether the Joker was really crazy or not, but this article had finally pushed him into the camp that it was all an act, that deep down the Joker had a plan for it all. _What's his gameplan? _After reading through the article several times, Bruce began skimming the rest of the paper. Nonetheless, that question refused to leave his thoughts.

* * *

By the time he returned to New Wayne Manor, Bruce fervently wished he had never read the paper today.

_What's his gameplan? What makes him tick?_

Answering those questions was becoming a raging obsession for Bruce. He had Alfred's answer, that the Joker was nothing but a nihilist, that all he wanted was 'to watch the world burn.' As convincing as that was, Bruce refused to accept it completely. _No one could pull off what he did without planning. And no one who plans would leave anything to chance, if they could avoid it. _It was absurd, impossible; a contradiction in terms.

Still, it gnawed at him. _Why? Why did he did it? I want to see him punished, but above all, I need to know what made him become what he did. That way, I can learn, anticipate; help stop others from following in his footsteps._

"Would you like supper now, sir?"

Bruce exploded. "No! Leave me alone now!"

Alfred looked stricken, but merely nodded and left the room, leaving him with his dark and turbulent thoughts.

* * *

"Commissioner Gordon's office, may I ask who's calling?"

"Thomas Quigley."

"I don't recognize your name, what is your relationship with the Commissioner?"

_He has a new secretary; I need to use the other catchphrase. _"I'm an old friend of his, from middle school back in Syracuse." Gordon had no friends from middle school.

"Uh, ok, one moment while I check." The line went silent; he waited. Then: "Gordon."

"It's me." The other side went silent. "Are you alone?"

"Yes." Another pause, then a sigh. "You do realize—"

"—your men can try to trace this call, but I wouldn't bother."

A chuckle. "I was only kidding, I didn't think you wouldn't have taken such an elementary precaution." Gordon stopped speaking. When he resumed, his voice was somewhat tentative. "How are you feeling—"

"—never mind that. What's going on with the Joker?"

"His lawyers—you know, the guy from the ACLU and those crazy students from Gotham Law—are challenging his competency to stand trial—"

"—I can read the damn papers!"

"No need to shout, dear." Bruce bit his lip; shouting was the least he wanted to do right now. "We're actually deliberately slowing things down."

That hit him right in the stomach. "Why?"

"We're still trying to root out any tentacles he or Maroni still have in the department."

Bruce remembered. "They sold out Dent and Dawes," he said in a cold whisper.

"Right now he's in a secure facility, we check and double-check everyone coming in a hundred feet of the place, but there's no guarantees if we bring it to trial—"

"—you afraid he'll escape?"

"That. There's also the possibility someone might want to take a shot at him."

"I don't kill—"

"—I wasn't referring to you; there are plenty of Maroni's friends and associates who'd like to take pieces of the Joker home with them." The line went quiet. "Do you want a piece of him, too?"

Bruce fought to keep his breathing steady. "I want justice this time." He tried to keep the anger out of his voice; he didn't think he was successful.

Gordon's reply was rich with regret and mourning: "So do I. We've lost so much, and with him, I think even the chair won't be enough. Not this time."

Bruce wanted to say the Joker didn't deserve the death penalty. He started to say it, but suddenly the words caught in his throat. A wave of angry and vindictive thoughts filled him; clamping down, only an inarticulate gargle came out.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Bat caught my tongue."

Gordon laughed at that; Bruce did not. "One last thing," the Commissioner began. "I need to know; how close have we been getting to you?"

As much as he wanted to ply Gordon for more info about the Joker, Bruce realized that this was just as, if not more important. He thought back to his meeting with Fox this afternoon. "Someone on your side might be getting a little too close for comfort asking questions about Eastern Communications Networking." Bruce referred to a small firm in Hong Kong controlled by himself through multiple layers of dummy corporations. Two days ago, their U.S. branch office in Gotham had received several visits from local inspectors asking about their export practices.

"Eastern Communications… let me check." He went off-line for a moment. "Okay, that's not us, it's the feds working under cover. Cleared it with me last week." Bruce winced. "My guess is the Chinese government gave them the tip. I thought you had all loose-ends covered on your side."

"So did I," Bruce said with a slight chuckle, the first time he laughed during the conversation. But it was no laughing matter: the riskiest part of the plan to bring Lau back to Gotham was having an ECN technician who was working at the complex the night he broke in swap out the phones used to disrupt the electronic defenses of the building. Bruce had hoped that in the chaos, the heist would have happened unnoticed, but if they didn't get away cleanly, it could become direct evidence linking the kidnapping to Fox, and to him.

"Anything you want me to do?"

Bruce thought fast. "I'll arrange for an environmental incident at their office in the next few days. Have the City Sanitation Department do an emergency haz-mat cleaning, and tell them to act soon as possible. They'll do enough damage to cover up any evidence there, and give me time to secure things on my end."

"And how will I get Health and Sanitation to intentionally trash the place?"

"You won't; the guys from Sanitation will come by first and ask for a bribe. I'll tell them to refuse, and when they do so, the City guys will make an example of the office."

Gordon clucked his teeth in disappointment. "I thought we'd gotten rid of such blatant corruption."

"Rome wasn't cleaned in a day. And in this case, it'll work for our benefit."

"Alright. I'll try to keep better tabs on the chase for you in the future."

"Concentrate on the Joker; we can't screw this up. You can't!" Again Bruce failed to keep the urgency out of his voice.

"Understood. Talk to you later. Be careful." Gordon hung up.

Bruce exhaled, trying to relieve the tension. It was good to get confirmation of the potential line the feds might be pursuing through ECN. But he was less than reassured about his overriding concern: bringing the Joker to justice. And unlike in the past, he had done a very poor job concealing the fact that he wanted more than the justice the law could provide.

_This is not about revenge,_ Bruce reminded himself. _It's about the truth. Once I figure him out, locking him away and throwing away the key will take care of it. End of story._ Bruce paused, considering his words. _It's _not_ about revenge,_ he thought again. And again._ It's not._

_It's not!_

* * *

**Rachel and her mom leave Wayne Manor**

I don't remember exactly how long it was after the funeral; not a year, more like several months. A lot of the staff began leaving: Mister Michaels, who cared for the gardens; Miss Radovan, who helped keep the hallways clean; lots of others. Mister Michaels was one of the first, and I think Miss Radovan was one of the last. I remember them by name, partly because Rachel and I would often get yelled at by them when we were playing.

The moment was when Alfred had made us some lunch. We were eating on the steps. I forget what we were eating, some kind of sandwich, but it was a bright, cold day – late fall.

Rachel said: "Bruce, Mom and I are moving."

I said: "Moving? Why?"

She said: "Mom says she has a new job, we have to go there."

"You don't have to move, you could stay here, right?"

"I don't want to move, but she says we have to."

"What is the new job?"

"She said laundry. Cleaning clothes."

"She does laundry here. Isn't this place better?"

"I don't know."

At this point, I got angry and threw my sandwich down the steps, and my drink. I was looking down the steps, but I didn't cry. I was mad.

"I'm sorry Bruce." I looked over at her; she was standing next to me, looking at me. I forget what her face looked like. She was not sad, or scared. I want to say hesitant. Maybe unsure.

I asked: "When are you moving?"

"Next week."

"So what do we do now?"

"Can we play?"

"Let's look around the house. Do new stuff before you go."

"Okay!"

Next Saturday, Alfred and some other staff helped Rachel's mom pack her things. I remember it all fit in the limo the driver (I forget his name) used to drive my Mom and Dad in. Rachel was carrying her school bag. I carried a box with all of her toys.

Her mom hugged Alfred. Then she came over to me, bent down, and hugged me. Her mom is much shorter than me, but back then, I remember how tall she was.

She said: "Good bye Bruce." I think she was crying. She definitely sniffed. She got up and pulled Rachel over. "Say good bye to Bruce, Rachel."

"Bye Bruce." She smiled.

I smiled and said: "Bye Rachel." I raised my hand, and she came over and slapped my hand. I slapped her hand back. I think we laughed. Then she and her Mom got in the car. Alfred stood next to me. Rachel was at the window. She and her mom waved at us. We waved back.

When the car was gone, I went back to the house. I remember I ran around the yard a lot, until I was hot. Then I went inside. I had dinner later. Then I went to bed.

* * *

Bruce put down the pen. Again the words seemed painfully bare, but he knew that anything much beyond what he wrote, and it would no longer be true memories (if such a thing existed). What he wanted to do most of all was jot down what he was feeling at the time they happened.

He reread what he wrote. _Alfred could help fill in lots of these details._ But Bruce did not want to go to Alfred about this; not yet. _He'll think I'm still obsessed with Rachel. I don't want to give that impression._

Reading again, Bruce thought very hard about his exact feelings when Rachel said she was moving, and why he felt mad – he definitely remembered feeling angry. _Because I was in love with her? _He smiled wickedly at the crazy thought. Then his grin drooped a bit. _Because I didn't want things to change. _So long as other things stayed the same, Bruce's life would be stable, and he could think about what was important: the memories of his parents.

But that wasn't the only thing he thought about, when he was alone, during all those days and months and years afterwards.

_I spent lots of time thinking about revenge. Of what I would do to that man. _His smile vanished. _When I realized how small and weak and pathetic I was compared to him,_ that_ was when I cried. Because I hated him, but I also knew I couldn't beat him. Not yet._

Bruce took one more glance at his latest entry before putting it away for safe keeping.

"Not yet."

* * *

The holding cell was cool stone gray, a featureless rectangular cell twenty feet square. Weak sickly light from a fluorescent strip ten feet up illuminated the room. There was no toilet, no bed, no furniture of any kind. A black rubber mat and some blankets served as a bed.

The Joker was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, under the light. All fifty four cards were face-down in front of him; he was playing a game of Concentration.

"I'll pick this one." He flipped over: ten of clubs. "And this one." It was five of hearts. "Bah!" He put them face down again.

"This one." A joker. "And that one." Two of spades. "Hmpf!" He flipped them over again.

"You." The other joker! "Alright, I just drew the other, where is it? There!" He flipped it over: four of diamonds.

The Joker laughed spontaneously. "What?" This was crazy, he remembered where the first joker was. He began flipping all the other cards over. None of them were the joker!

"I must be losing my mind." He began counting, and to his surprise there were fifty three cards.

"Hahaha!" This was really strange! The Joker got up, looking around the room, his long sandy-colored hair whipping about.

He saw it; the card was on the other side of the room. The Joker blinked; it was no longer on the floor, but being held by the Batman.

"Looking for this?"

The Joker laughed. And laughed. And laughed again. What a surprise!

"We need to talk." His voice was so soft and gentle!

Whatever drugs the guards were slipping into his food this time, the Joker heartily approved. "I think two people in this room are a few cards short of a full deck!"

"You're as sane as I am."

"Then I'm really screwed!"

The Batman walked towards him. "Let's talk."

The Joker beamed. "Like I always say, let your fists do the talking!"

"I don't want to hurt you. Just answer my questions."

The Joker blinked. Maybe these drugs weren't so hot after all. "Visiting hours are over."

"Not for me."

Frowning, the Joker gave Batman the finger, then strode over to the door. He banged at it repeatedly with his fist.

"They can't hear you."

"Hey! Pigs! I've got a bat in my belfry, and I need bat-control, stat!"

There was no response. The Batman was but feet away, standing perfectly calm. But the Joker remembered those fists. He stared quizzically at the Caped Cuckoo. "How did you do that?"

There was no answer.

The Joker cocked his head again. "You paid everyone off. Just so you could get a piece of me."

"If that helps you deal with the situation, yes."

The Joker began to smile again. "Ok, if you want to circle down the looney-drain with me, I'll take you with me!"

The Batman stepped closer to the Joker, who did not back off, not even when they were nose to nose, close enough for the Joker to see every red vein in the whites of his eyes. "Why?"

"Why not?"

The Batman's fist exploded into his stomach, driving the breath out of him. He tried to laugh through the pain, but all that came out was a series of choking coughs. Slowly the Joker got to his feet; by the time he did so, he was laughing again.

The Batman was a foot away. "Why?" he repeated.

"Could you be a little more specific?" the Joker asked in a tinny voice. He braced for another assault, but the Batman remain motionless, staring at him, unblinking.

Fine, I can play the waiting game better than anyone! The Joker merely grinned back, stuffing his hands in his pockets. After what was an eternity, the Batman blinked his eyes. "What made you what you are?"

The Joker scratched his head. "Genetics. Environment. Good luck. Bad luck. Shall I continue?"

"Only if you don't want me to hurt you."

The Joker shook his head reproachfully. "I can't answer you if I'm dead."

"I want the truth."

"You're going to be disappointed."

"Try me."

Stunned by the stupid obstinacy of the Batman, the Joker involuntarily giggled. "You won't believe anything I say. How could you? I can spin a web of lies so fine people never see it until they're caught. If you want to beat me into a confession, we might as well get on with it."

"I want the truth, because it is your only chance at redemption."

"Redemption? From what?"

The Batman smiled. "Let me rephrase that. By telling me the truth about yourself, I promise that the world will know it and understand you at last."

"You call that redemption? I don't think that word means what you think it does."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Better! Keep going, you might get somewhere!"

"I know that everything you have ever done, ever said to anyone, has been a lie. If you tell me the truth of why you did it, all of it, you can die with the assurance that your life has not been a waste."

The Joker's mouth hung open in astonishment. "My life a waste? What gave you that idea?"

"People will learn from the truth of your life. How to avoid monsters like you from being born in the future."

"Heh, that's not much of a bargain. How about this one: you kill me, and I'll die with all my secrets intact. So one day, when someone has finally had enough of the crap life has dealt him, they'll look at me and know, 'Yes! I can be myself! No one else matters.' Trust me, they'll learn more from that."

"One last time. Before the pain begins. Why?"

The Joker sighed. "It's a shame you went to all this effort—and I must say, it was brilliant how you managed to sneak in here to spend some quality time with me—for nothing. I already told you everything you need to know. You just gotta do it. Why? Why not? I wasn't being flip; I understood exactly what you were asking! 'Why not' is all the reason you need! Because it's what you want to do! That's what it's all about: Numero Uno, me myself and I." He gestured to Batman. "Or you, yourself and you. And if you gotta—" he smashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand, making a loud snap echo through the room, "—to get what you want, all the better. Shall I say more?"

The Batman did not signal agreement, but he did not attack. Delighted to continue the lesson, the Joker continued: "Action-reaction. You hit me, I hit you. That got me through the early years, but it's so… _reactive! _So unoriginal! BORING!" He shouted the last word, gesticulating grandly to the silent figure. "Just do whatever you want, and do anything to get what you want. Everyone does that, but people like you and me, we don't let silly things like rules get in the way."

The Joker thought he saw a twitch out of the corner of his mouth. Good! He remembers! I have him now! Exultant, he continued: "There's nothing better than getting what you want. Don't you remember being a little kid, getting that shiny new train set? How good it made you feel? Then you grow up, and people left and right are telling you, 'Do this,' 'Do that,' 'Can't do this,' 'You need permission.' And I say, to hell with that! You were right when you were a kid; if you want it, you deserve it. And if you can't get it one way, you get it another way. And the best way of getting what you want, is getting it all by taking everything away from someone else. Like killing."

Another barely imperceptible twitch from the Batman. The Joker paused to catch his breath. "I know you feel it too. There's nothing better than making some lowlife punk beg for mercy, swear he'll do anything you want, after beating him to a pulp." He nodded to the Batman. "It's how you operate, my dear Batman, so don't deny it. After all, you're here for the truth. And truth includes self-truth—"

—suddenly the Joker was smashed to the ground. His head bounced off the floor, and just like in the comics, he saw stars! The stars were still spinning about his head when the Batman picked him up roughly off the floor and slammed him into a wall. Inches away, a furious Batman hissed at him: "Are you finished?"

"Almost." With that the Batman hurled him across the room. The Joker landed in a jumbled tangle, and it was a bit of a struggle to get to his feet. When he did so, he dusted himself and said calmly: "As I was saying. It's even better when you kill them, because you get so much more when you threaten their lives. Not just money, mind you; you see the most amazing things about people at the end. It's a real rush!"

He stopped talking. The Batman was visibly upset, breathing heavily as if to keep from exploding. "So you'd kill everyone just because it makes you feel good?"

The Joker's eyes widened in surprise. "Everyone? Did I say everyone? I'm no Hitler or Pol Pot, I don't want to kill everybody different from me. Only those who get in my way. Or people I have to. Oh sure, occasionally someone for no reason at all, but not that often—"

—Batman exploded towards him, but this time he was ready, and the Joker dodged. Fast as the Batman was, the Joker was a hair faster, and by the time Batman whirled about, he was ten feet away. The Joker crouched in a defensive stance. "Don't make me hurt you!"

Breathing heavily, the Batman lowered his arms. "You're as good as your word: nothing," he said with disgust and contempt. The Batman turned to leave.

The Joker was outraged. "Wait, we had a deal! You said you were going to kill me! You gave me your word, you can't back out! Welcher!" He took off his shoe and threw it at the Batman, which hit him in the back.

The Batman paused. "You'll never hurt anyone again. After they execute you, you'll be nothing but a footnote. Yesterday's news." He turned to face him. "A bad joke."

Again he turned to leave. "Come on, my act's just started! You gotta give a comic time to develop his material! Don't you want to hear how Rachel Dawes died?"

The Batman stopped. He did not turn around. A moment later, he continued walking.

The Joker was not discouraged. "Aha! See, every good joke starts with a hook!" He followed slowly behind him. "First things first, you gotta do something about all the bent cops in Gotham, it's like cheating, it makes things so easy! I was hoping they'd get either Harvey or Rachel, but the bad boys in blue came through for once, and I bagged them both!"

Batman kept walking. He spoke rapidly: "It was all for you, see, I wanted to show you the truth; to hell with society's rules, just do what you feel like! I had you pegged for having a thing for Rachel, so I had to pick her, just business, nothing personal. Harvey, well, that was complicated, I wanted to convert you, but I was hired to whack Harvey, so when I thought you were him, it made things terribly confusing! But it all worked out in the end, I got to play my games, and Harvey switched sides!"

"But I digress; we were talking about Rachel. The thing is, I need to apologize. Good help is so hard to come by these days. I told them just to pick her up, bring her to the warehouse unharmed, but you know, guys in this town, they're animals! Something in the water, I think. When the four of them told me what they did to her before tying her up, it made me sick to my stomach, and that's a fact!"

Batman instantly froze. He whirled about and grabbed the Joker by his collar. "What did you say?" he whispered.

The Joker held his hands out plaintively. "You know, business is business, but Miss Dawes, see, she put a lot of my men's buddies into prison. I respect that, shows ability, especially in this town. But you know like they say, payback's a bitch." He smiled gently. "I'm sure it wasn't all that bad an experience, even for her. You know what they say; it's the quiet ones who like it rough!"

The Batman jerked Joker close, so once again he could see the whites of his eyes. They were bulging out of their sockets; sweat was pouring down the sides of his head. Nostrils flaring, he quivered with awesomely-repressed fury. The Joker's grin became broader. That should do it!

A few seconds later, to his utter astonishment the Batman let him go. "She died. Nothing else matters." Once again he stomped away.

Clearing his throat and straightening out his shirt, the Joker sighed. "I apologize profusely," he called out, "there was no excuse for that. Maybe you can tell me something, it would really ease my conscience if you do! Naturally she begged for her life, and of course my men ignored her, but what she said before they left really upset them, and me. I mean, sure, it's one thing to whack a chick, but man, when they're knocked up also?"

Again Batman froze. This time, he turned slowly, deliberately. "You're lying."

"I wish I were. I mean, she wasn't showing or anything, so I'm hoping she was just saying things. But since you're here, you must know. Him and Rachel, was it serious? And I don't mean to pry, but what about you—"

—the Joker never finished his words, because Batman exploded towards him and began pounding him furiously, screaming in rage. The Joker tried to defend himself, but he was defenseless as blow after blow from Batman's armored gloves shattered ribs and teeth. Spitting out the bloody fragments, the Joker gurgled: "Good thing Harvey died—"

"—SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" Batman screamed. He slammed the Joker's head into the pavement, again and again, breaking bones and tearing the skin from his forehead. His nose bent sideways under a ferocious blow. The Joker laughed—or more accurately, hiccupped blood which was pouring in torrents. Somehow he managed to speak:

"Do—what—you—got—do—!"

—A final scream, more anguished than any before. Batman shoved his fingers into the Joker's mouth, then pulled outwards, ripping the flesh between his jaws. Putting a real smile on my face!

With true wonder the Joker reveled in their mutual downfall. I get the last laugh! he tried to say, but his dismembered mouth produced only bloody bubbles as everything faded to reddish black.

* * *

"Sir? Sir!" Alfred dashed into the bedroom. Bruce was sitting naked at the edge of his bed, his hands a bloody horror. All the mirrors and windows in his room had been shattered.

He was completely passive, a totally-placid look on his face. Looking at Alfred, he smiled. "Because he deserved it."

* * *

"We won't be able to hide everything from the press, but the hospital has agreed to say you were drunk when you were brought in."

"Did you promise a whole new building?"

"Just a new wing. They need to expand their pediatrics unit."

"A small price, considering."

"Just so."

"And what about these?" Bruce raised his heavily bandaged hands.

"Drop in the futures market."

"We aren't doing that badly!"

"Sir, Bruce Wayne is an impulsive billionaire playboy. If he wants to smash glasses because of a 2% loss, that's his business."

"I can't argue with that."

"Although I think we really need to worry about our European investments, lately they've been—"

"—Alfred, it's okay. Thank you."

"Of course, sir." A pause.

"Yes Alfred?"

"Will you answer the question now, sir?"

"Alfred, I wish I could."

* * *

As Bruce explained to Alfred and Lucius later, the whole experience had started like so many dreams he had been having lately: him and the Joker, alone. Over and over he would ask, "Why?" The Joker would give all kinds of responses, some of which almost made sense. Lucius explained that they were all subconscious recapitulations of what he had thought previously. _Thank you, Dr. Freud, I took intro psych too, you know! _

That night, the shadowy reality of a dream had somehow become more tangible, more real, until he was actually there…so it seemed. Bruce had explained after he had killed the Joker (he shuddered at the memory), he tried taking off his suit, but it would not come off—it had fused into his skin, and had become the color and texture of blood. Neither he nor Lucius would deign to speculate about the psychological implications of that dream.

Once more Lucius got a sample of Bruce's blood analyzed. There were still traces of that mysterious compound they had found on him when he was discovered in South Shore. But he insisted he had extensively tested the compound, and it had no pharmacological effect. Lucius refused to say anything further, but Bruce suspected that he was becoming amenable to the possibility that they were facing something that their technical knowledge might not be sufficient to explain.

At great risk to themselves, Alfred on Bruce's instructions managed to covertly obtain an autopsy report on Rachel from the Gotham City Morgue. Whether something…bad had happened to her would be impossible to tell, but Bruce was praying that his vision—or whatever it was that happened—was just a figment of his imagination. _If Rachel was actually carrying Harvey's child when she was murdered, I will never forgive myself._

The report did not say she was pregnant, but judging on how much of her remains they had managed to recover, it was unlikely anyone could ever know, one way or the other. Bruce did not bother trying to hold back the tears afterwards.

* * *

A week later, just as Bruce was beginning to put the devastating experience behind him, a lurid tabloid article shattered him again:

**JOKER 'SUICIDE' ATTEMPT FOILED! GRISTLY PICTURES INSIDE!**

After days of denial, Arkham Asylum has finally acknowledged that the infamous prisoner known as the Joker sustained life-threatening injuries in a purported suicide attempt late last week. This acknowledge came after pictures of the shocking aftermath were revealed here on _Gotham Today…_

* * *

The black and white photo showed the Joker lying supine in a pool of his own blood. The corners of his mouth had been torn open.

It reminded Bruce of several victims he had encountered who had their mouths sliced open by the Joker, in a hideous rictus of death. But it also exactly resembled the image of the Joker he had in his vision, the one where, out of sheer rage and horror at the statement—the mere possibility—that Rachel had been pregnant when she died, he sank his fingers into the Joker's mouth and clawed at them until his flesh tore under his fury.

_What the hell is going on?_


	4. Chapter 4

4  
bargaining

* * *

—screaming, Bruce Wayne shot up out of his bed, covered in sweat, his body freezing cold. He glanced at the alarm clock: 4:40AM. He had slept maybe two hours that whole night, less than eight for the entire week.

There was a time when night was his ally, his comfort, his milieu. The underworld of Gotham had begun to fear the dark that was so often their ally in the past, because he was out there, waiting for them. Now, he did whatever he could to avoid sleep: taking pills, drinking coffee, cold showers, anything to avoid the nightmare which never changed, and he could not escape…

…_she was there, trapped amid the barrels… they were there, too, closing on her, laughing… again and again he saw what they did to her, but could do nothing, helpless as if he were tied up there with her…_

…_after they had their way, he saw her pleading: not for herself, but for the unborn child he would never know if she was carrying… _

…_the vision would then change: he would see her holding an infant in her arms, smiling, doting on her child like she was the best mother in the world… _

…_and then he would see her and the baby burn in the all-consuming fire…_

"This is madness," he said over and over again, each time he awoke, just before the flames claimed him as well. _The Joker—your own mind—is just playing tricks on you. Bringing up imaginary fears. Just ignore it; it didn't happen…_

…_but if it did…_

Bruce Wayne was a cornered animal, becoming ever more desperate to escape the trap he was ensnared in. If it could help, he would gnaw off his arm, leg, all his extremities. But it wouldn't. _Because I'm trapped in my own mind. Inside the horror of the truth and what might be. I can never know what really happened; therefore, I can never escape…_

* * *

Through Fox, Wayne Enterprises had quietly put out notice that Bruce Wayne was on a sabbatical, and would return in a few weeks. Coincidentally, Lucius was also on an extended vacation, the first he had taken in over twenty years.

_If only,_ he thought grimly. Every moment of his free time he was holed up at New Wayne Manor, desperately trying to tend to whatever was ailing Bruce Wayne.

It was a profound shock when Lucius saw him, after what Alfred said had been nearly ten days in which Bruce had slept maybe ten hours total. His sunken cheeks and darkened eyes made him appear like a totally different person. But it was the personality change which was most disturbing: Bruce Wayne always had a public persona of devil-may-care, and even his shadow self was iron-hard discipline, no-nonsense, in total control. Now, Wayne was listless and tentative, irascible and whining, his anger no longer hinting at righteous outrage but covering up a chilling ineffable fear that Wayne seemed to have, but was either unable or unwilling to articulate.

"I don't understand," he said, frustrated. Alfred, Bruce Wayne, and himself were huddled in Mr. Wayne's study. Wayne was wearing a dark checkered bathrobe and slippers; he sat slumped in his chair, listless and distracted. "Those drugs we got for you suppress REM-sleep, you shouldn't be having any dreams at all."

Bruce Wayne made a grunting sound, but did not respond further. "We're already at maximum dose, if it's not helping, we should discontinue."

"Is there anything else we could give him?" Alfred asked, the look of worry plain on his face.

Lucius shook his head. "The only other option is to use deep-anesthesia medication, completely anesthetize his cerebellum. At least that way he'll get the rest he needs."

"Is that dangerous?"

"We'll have to administer it intravenously. You can handle that yourself, right?" Alfred nodded. "Good, the less people involved the better—"

"—not dead," Bruce gurgled, as he stared off into space.

The two of them stared. Alfred said: "I'm sorry, sir?"

Bruce Wayne slowly rose from his chair, a look of divine revelation on his face—a most foreign expression. He began walking around the room, his hands lifted in front of him, gesturing at things which only he could see. "He said he was alive," Wayne said dreamily. "He gave me what he was using, that's why we communicated."

Alfred followed after him. "Who?"

"Ra's al Gul, of course."

Lucius suspected where this line of thought was leading, and sought to squash it promptly. "Ra's al Gul is dead, you killed him—"

"—but he came back, you see?"

Fighting to contain his anger, Lucius growled: "Sir, we went over that, you were hallucinating, or someone else was pretending to be him, and that drug just dulled your senses enough to confuse you—"

"—so if Ra's can live after death, so could Harvey. So could Rachel. See? They're out there, I know it!" Wayne's eyes were bright and insane; he was smiling, which terrified Lucius and Alfred.

"That's enough, sir," Alfred said forcefully, grabbing Wayne's arm. "No more talk of nonsense."

"It's my fault," Wayne said, his voice almost pathetically whimpering, like he was a child. "He tricked me, I was so sure she would be there, waiting for me. You understand, right?"

_Bruce Wayne was in love with Rachel Dawes,_ Alfred had explained to him. Lucius was loath to engage in psychoanalysis, but it was the key to explain Wayne's bizarre behavior since the Joker had been apprehended. In addition to the mental trauma he had endured when his parents were killed in front of him, the shock of having found Dent instead of Dawes when he went to rescue her had created a fresh, serious wound to his psyche. The overwhelming need to stop the Joker had allowed Wayne to suppress his feelings of pain and guilt, and with admirable discipline he managed to stop the Joker. But Wayne had endured a final shock: he had accidentally killed DA Dent, who due to his own trauma had tried to kill a policeman's children. Alfred had told him that Wayne had hoped he could give up Batman and leave it to Dent to solve Gotham's criminal problem. Instead, not only had he killed Dent, he had agreed to take responsibility for the murders Dent had committed. _And left us in our current predicament._

With Dawes death more than a month in the past, and Wayne unable and/or unwilling to carry on as Batman for the moment, he began to dwell on the personal consequences of what had happened, leading to his current bout of psychological damage. _This is just his attempt to work through it all. _That was bad enough, but what had happened when he went to visit Miss Dawes' cousin was even more disturbing. It was not so much the unusual chemicals he found in Wayne's system, but the fact that someone had kidnapped him in the first place. _Kidnapped him, yet they did not kill or ransom Wayne. Instead, they had messed with his mind, implanted the idea that Ra's al Gul was still alive, thus using Wayne's own memories against him, and giving him an imperceptible nudge off the cliff of sanity. _Who better knew how to push Wayne's buttons, more even than the Joker himself? _The remnants of Ra's' terrorist organization, the League of Shadows._ _They're watching him—and us. They must have a plan._

Lucius and Alfred had worked behind the scenes to strengthen the defenses around New Wayne Manor, implanting cameras and sensors out to a mile throughout the woods and fields surrounding the area. So far, they had detected nothing, so the main task was to see to Wayne's security in person. _Unfortunately, if he doesn't snap back to rationality soon…_

"Yes, sir, we do," Lucius said in as sympathetic a voice as he could muster. "The Joker is safely behind bars. He won't escape."

"I hurt him," Wayne said in a suddenly vicious hiss. "I couldn't stand him leering at me, at Rachel, so I made sure to tear him a new smile. Who has the last laugh now, eh?" He started laughing manically. Lucius looked at Alfred in discomfort, unsure of what to say in response.

"He will get what he deserves, Master Wayne. Have no doubt," Alfred said soothingly.

Wayne seemed to slump a bit. "I'm so tired," he said, his voice so soft Lucius barely heard him. "But I can't sleep, I don't wanna…" He slackened, then jerked awake, his eyes suddenly bulging with some inner madness.

They had to act quickly. Nodding to Alfred, the faithful butler began leading Wayne to his bedroom. Lucius tagged behind them, rummaging through the bag he brought, seeking the right anesthetic to administer.

"No, I can't sleep, I have to be Batman, I have to save Rachel," he slurred, trying to push Alfred aside as he helped him into bed.

"It's time for you to rest, Sir," Alfred said as Lucius prepared the hypodermic.

"Can't sleep," he whimpered, "they're hurting her, I can't save her in my dreams…"

Lucius gave Alfred the hypo. "You'll be heroic, Sir," Alfred said soothingly as he rucked up the sleeve on his right arm and began swabbing his skin with an antiseptic pad. "She'll be with you always, but it's the future that matters, starting with your own." He inserted the needle; Wayne hardly seemed to respond. "This is the first step."

"Alfred—" Wayne began, then he let out a soft groan as his eyes rolled into the back of his head; by the time he hit the pillows, he was completely unconscious.

The two men stood side by side over Wayne's motionless form. "I'm still worried," Alfred said.

"I've done all I can, but chemicals can only go so far," Lucius replied. "Perhaps we should contact Doctor Thompkins?"

"No," Alfred responded immediately. "She tried to help Bruce in high school, and…" he shuddered. "Let's just say it didn't work out."

"Okay," Lucius said. "But you have to face the possibility that Mr. Wayne is mentally ill, and needs real mental treatment."

Alfred made a sound of disgust. "Are you sure that stuff you found in his blood isn't doing this to him?"

Lucius held up his hands in exasperation. "It isn't doing anything to him, that's the point! It's just a jumbled mix of a dozen ordinary neural chemicals, nothing that doesn't exist in the human mind already." He sighed. "I isolated what I could and placed it in animal test subjects, with no result." He paused for effect. "I even took some myself, and I experienced no symptoms."

Alfred looked at him with shock. "You're not the only one who loves him," he said softly. "I would do anything to save him, but in this case, he's going to have to save himself."

Alfred nodded. "What about him now?"

Lucius was glad to get back to the physical realm. "Watch over him for the next two hours. If his breathing becomes irregular in any way, wake him." He gave him another glass bottle. "I gave him enough for twelve hours, so check up on him again every four hours." He gave Alfred several more bottles. "Let's do this for four more days, and if he shows improvement, we can stop."

"And if he doesn't?"

Lucius grimaced. "Good afternoon, Alfred."

"Good day, Lucius."

* * *

When Bruce woke up the next day, he felt better than he had in a long time. The memories were still there when he awoke, but they had become more distant, more abstract. The horrors were there, but it was like he could hold them off at arms-length. They seemed two-dimensional, not entirely real anymore, unlike before.

But he could not forget. _Focus on the positives. _With his 'sabbatical' nearing the end, he decided now was the time to finish his memoirs.

* * *

**Rachel in High school**

After Rachel moved away, I didn't think about her much. While growing up, I remember getting involved in sports, learning more things in and out of school, being able to be a kid again, which was a relief. In the immediate years after my parents died, I began to move on, although I think it was more not thinking about them all the time.

But I never stopped thinking about them, not completely. I remember getting into fights, lots of them. Once or twice other kids made fun of my being an orphan, and I would really beat them up as much as I could, even when they were much bigger than me. But fighting only became a habit when I beat up bullies. I remember this one especially: Stanley Maruchek, the kid of a rich banker at our private school, very big and very mean. One day in fifth grade I saw him take another kid's lunch money, a poorer kid who was there on scholarship. I was so mad, I hid in the bushes after school, and when he walked by I beat him up badly.

The next day Alfred yelled at me, saying I was behaving badly. I told him he deserved it, he took another kid's money. Alfred seemed to understand, but he told me violence was not the answer. That made me mad, I said how else would you get the kid's money back? Alfred said there were other ways besides fighting.

Looking back, I realize that this was still a result of my anger over my parents' deaths. Well, that's what Dr. Thompkins said. I don't mind her so much now, but back then, I really disliked her, she was always telling me how I was feeling, even when I wasn't. Or when she said what I was actually feeling, I refused to admit it. I think she knew I was lying, though. I had to start seeing her after I beat up a bunch of kids the next year. After I bear up Stanley I was more careful, only attacking when no one else was around. But when I beat up that gang, somehow Alfred knew it was me, and he brought Dr. Thompkins to see me.

She told me to find other outlets for my anger, to get involved in sports, to do outdoor activities, work. She and Alfred both warned me that as I got older, the more I got involved in fighting and other bad activities, the more serious the consequences, the greater the punishment. I would not be treated like a kid forever, one day I would be an adult and face grown-up punishment. I wanted to tell them I saw my mom and dad killed, I knew what could happen to people. But I didn't say that.

Later in middle school and starting high school, I think I began to change. Before, I was always angry, hot-tempered. If I didn't fight with people, I would yell at them a lot. But after middle school, things changed. Part of it was I began to understand just how much money was in my family. It never occurred to me before, but I began to think I could use that money to do things, make changes. And I definitely noticed starting in high school, lots of kids, boys and girls, really started acting nice to me. Obviously, when you're young and growing up, people's families don't matter much, but as you become a teenager and adult, the reality of the world becomes more important. Someone like me, with my background, can be a very important friend, or a very dangerous enemy. If the other kids didn't know that, their parents probably told them.

Actually, I hated that even more, because it was so obvious they were sucking up. But as Dr. Thompkins helped teach me, I could see the other side of the argument: it's easy to look down on people when you're as high up as me, even if you don't want to be. So I actually began to act better, 'befitting your station' is the way Alfred said it. I was nicer to people. But I never let go of my rage. As I learned more about the law and justice, I always remained angry that Joe Chill was still alive. I wanted him dead, and it made me angry that he hadn't been executed. When I was growing up, I just had childish dreams of hurting Chill. Now, I could actually imagine killing him—or even having him killed! Haha, definitely never told Dr. Thompkins that!

Anyway, back to Rachel. Over the years, Alfred would occasionally drop hints of how she and her family was doing. I probably didn't pay much attention then, I wish I could remember now. A while ago, Alfred did his best to help refresh my memories. Rachel enrolled in a parochial school, in the far northeastern parts of Gotham. She was at an all-girls school, and I went to an all-guys school. And like me, she had to wear a school uniform, and disliked it intensely. She didn't do much in the way of athletics; painting and school plays were more her thing. The next time I saw her after she moved out was five years later, at a memorial anniversary for my parents. We only exchanged words of greeting, because I made it clear to everyone there I did not want to talk to people about it. I was probably very rude to her. I had to go and I hated it, which is probably why I really started fighting again right after.

But we did see each other now and then in high school. We weren't dating or anything, but we would 'hang'. Now that we were older, we had more freedom to do so, especially me. Alfred was surprisingly willing to let me be free as I became older, especially after I turned fifteen. I asked him about it recently, and he said with a smile, "'You've been a grown-up for a long time, Bruce. It was only proper to treat you as such, as soon as I could, which no doubt was not soon enough from your view.'" Good old Alfred!

With Rachel, that meant I was allowed to ride the buses and trains into Gotham to meet her, and later by driving. We went to 10th grade prom together at her school, but I am sorry to say, while she was a good friend to be with, someone to talk about old times, I didn't think she was all that pretty back then: glasses, braces, some messed-up hair. Some of her friends were really pretty, and I ended up talking with them a lot. I don't think she liked that.

We never did the prom thing again.

One thing we talked about a lot when we met was Clinton Polawski. He was a big, smart, and very mean kid at my school, who I fought with a lot, and he eventually left or was kicked out. They lived not far from where Rachel did, and she told me a lot about the bad things he was doing at his parochial school. One fall day in senior year, she told me about a suspected school break-in they were rumored to be planning. When I heard that, I decided to do something about it. That night, I dressed in all-black and wore a ski mask. I took along a baseball bat, and even a couple of knives. I went to his school and waited in the bushes. Sure enough, he and three other guys came by, with tools to break in. One of them had a pistol. He was on the lookout while the others worked on the window.

I felt really excited! While he wasn't looking, I snuck up to him and smashed his arm with the bat. The gun flew out of his hand, and he screamed. I smacked him in the head, and probably broke his skull. The others came after me, carrying knives and hammers. I beat the crap out of them, too. Clinton grabbed me and knocked the bat loose, but I broke free and punched him in the face. I was about to draw a knife on him, but he ran away. I yelled after him, "Go home, tomato-head!" (that was his nickname for him at my school). Then I called the police and went home.

The next day it was in the news that his friends were arrested for attempted burglary. Either they didn't rat out Clinton, or his father threatened their fathers, so he got off. A few weeks later, when Rachel and I met during Christmas break, she confronted me on the incident.

We were having a milkshake at an ice-cream place. After an unusual amount of small talk, she asked bluntly: "Were you the guy who beat up Clinton and his friends?"

I lied without hesitation: "What makes you think it was me?"

"I heard Clinton mention the guy who did it, called him 'tomato-head'. That's your nickname for him, isn't it?"

"Everyone at my school called him 'tomato-head'. His hair was as red as his face, which was really red when he got mad." I laughed at the memory.

Rachel was as sharp then as she was now. "But he was last at your school four years ago. So the person who beat him up must have been from your school, right?"

"Someone, I'm sure. Doesn't mean it was me." Lying could be a real hard thing to pull off!

I remember she looked very unhappy; she even took off her glasses to look me in the eye. "Bruce, you can't keep going around beating up people, even if they do bad things," she said in a scolding tone of voice.

Then I got mad. "I haven't fought anyone lately!"

She looked very sad. "Okay, I'll take your word for it. But I've heard rumors about you. I just hope they aren't true."

"They're not." At that point, I started feeling bad, because I think I told one lie too many even for me.

I think she suspected me, because she avoided me her last semester of high school. It's a good thing, because I really had the taste for blood after beating up Clinton. I went out several more times that semester, on Saturday nights. Instead of cruising for chicks, I was cruising for bad people in the neighborhood. Unlike now, I didn't dare do this in Gotham City itself, but some of the nearby suburbs, which occasionally had crime problems, I would be on the prowl. My proudest moment was breaking up what I thought was an attempted sexual assault, although the guy did say that was his girlfriend and she agreed. I think that's what he said. before I knocked him out anyway.

Some time after graduation, we met for the final time in a long time. It was a Saturday in the park, and we were talking about our future plans. I told her I wasn't going to college.

She was so surprised! "You're not going to college?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"I have other things I want to try first. I think I've had enough of books for the moment."

She looked very skeptical, but she didn't mention anything about Clinton, or my other suspected activities. "Still going to Gotham U?" Rachel nodded. "What are you going to study?"

She bit her lip. "I'm thinking psychology."

That was new. "Not medicine?"

She seemed nervous. "Well, it's still about helping people. That's very important to me."

"Helping people… who are crazy?" I suddenly became suspicious, thinking there was a connection between her new choice of major and me.

"That's not the right way to describe them—"

"—how about paranoid? Revenge-obsessed?"

Now she got mad. "Look, Bruce, this is not about you—"

"—then what? You think I'm crazy? Go ask Dr. Thompkins, she'll certify I'm completely sane!"

"No, no it's not that!" She looked nervous. "But… there are… a lot of people who are not right in the head. Locking them up is not always the answer."

"What about Chill? Was he crazy? Did he have an excuse?" As soon as I said it I regretted it. But not because I was insulting her. I let her see myself, too much so. That frightened me.

Rachel's face softened a bit. "I want to help people. If you ever need my help, just ask."

I almost told her I needed less help than almost anyone else in the world, but if I had done so, that would have been the end of any relationship. I quickly smiled and said: "Thanks. I'm sure you'll be a great psychologist."

"It's 'psychiatrist', I think, I'll learn the difference!" We both laughed, but there was a quick silence afterwards. We had nothing else to say; our lives were about to go their separate ways for the last time. "Bye, Bruce," she said, and turned away, not bothering to hug me as she often did in the past. I offered to give her a ride home, but she insisted on taking the bus. I watched her as she left the park, not moving for the longest time.

That was the last time I spoke with her in person until the day of Chill's hearing.

* * *

As Bruce wrote that last sentence, a terrible feeling of loss and regret filled him. _Did she really want to be a psychiatrist because she wanted to help me? Maybe succeed where Dr. Thompkins failed? _Other possibilities ran through his head. _Maybe her dad put her up to it. I remember how nice he was to me when we went to her prom. Most dads are suspicious of their daughter's dates, but not him that night, oh no! _It was a dark and cynical view, and he chided himself for having it. _Obviously she didn't follow through, decided to go to law school, and do criminal prosecution. _He wondered about that: after that conversation, Bruce thought she would be a public defender, if anything. _Maybe what I said had an effect? _

Whatever the reason, it was all in the past now. _All in the past._ Those words did not make him feel any better.

Now he felt down again.

* * *

It was a beautiful late fall Sunday, cold enough to herald the imminent arrival of winter. The winds were whistling through the trees, the flutter of falling leaves creating a constant background chatter which accompanied Bruce as he strolled around his manor, assessing priorities.

Tomorrow he would go back to work, doing the best to put on a carefree façade to the world. But behind his twinkling eyes and plastic smile, Bruce could still feel the heaviness in his heart weighing him down. Mercifully, the urge to relive all the actual and potential atrocities that had happened to Rachel had died away. Instead, it was the future which now oppressed him: however long he had to live, he would have to live that life empty of her presence, her companionship. And with Dent dead, too, it would be a future where crime was poised to make a comeback. _And it was all thanks to him!_

The recriminations rolled on, endlessly, without resolution in his mind. The only real solution was to wait and see what future events would dictate. But without a clear yes or no answer to the question, 'Whither Batman?' all he could do was wait for events to determine his course. _That, and continue to dwell over Rachel_. That also was not a pleasant task, but the alternative was to let her fade into memory, and he fiercely resisted the notion. _Allowing her memory to fade away would be like killing her a second time!_

The problem was, of course, that in his recollections, the sum total of his memories were pitifully small. And the most vivid ones tended to include Batman, who himself seemed to be an increasingly unwelcome presence in his life.

Bruce was now almost a quarter-mile from the manor, at the edge of the trees which marked the outer boundaries of an adjacent state forest that stretched off to the southwest of his own property. Some discrete environmental lobbying had ensured that this old growth forest, one of the few left on the East Coast, remained unspoiled._ A perfect way to expand his defensive perimeter, as well as being environmentally-correct . _He looked back at the manor; despite its impressive size, even at this short distance it seemed diminished in stature.

Bruce Wayne was preoccupied with his thoughts a lot these days, but even his heavy heart did not dull his alertness, so when he heard the crack of a twig which could only have resulted from someone stepping on it, he whirled about, searching.

"Alfred, is that you?" he called out. _Of course it isn't him, he's got the afternoon off, he shouldn't be back so early. _Bruce took a step to the trees, then stopped. _Is that safe?_

Instantly he crouched down, ducking behind an old pine tree. He was absolutely still, his breathing inaudible even to himself. Quietly he removed a PDA from his pocket, which was linked wirelessly to the sensor net surrounding his property. There was no sign of activity.

_Great, another hallucination._ But that wasn't right, everything felt perfectly normal. Carefully he peered out. Off in the distance, the number of trees thickened, forming an impenetrable forest. Ra's training came to mind without effort: _Do not look at the scenery, scan for movement._ He focused and did so. The trees faded from vision, becoming a static canvass, and then he saw activity: a figure, behind a tree like himself.

A woman. It was Rachel.

_It was _not_ Rachel!_ Every small brunette he saw these days involuntarily created that sensation; this would be no different. Blinking, he stared intently into the forest. Leaves and branches were quivering slightly; the figure was fleeing.

Bruce silently pursued, even as he hesitated mentally; this was dangerous, he should return to the Manor. But whoever this was, it was no lost hiker, he was sure of it. And if they didn't want to fight, that meant they were unarmed, and he could take them. All further doubt disappeared; he concentrated intently on running down his prey.

Moving quietly but not silently, he changed directions at random, pausing at irregular intervals, to prevent his target from tracking him. Bruce carefully scanned the ground ahead for potential traps, avoiding open spots whenever possible. This slowed him down, and he feared losing her. But with a triumph, he saw the faint outlines of a footprint in the damp ground. He continued after her, delving ever deeper into the gloomy woods.

_Who is it? _The more he thought about it, the more he kept thinking she looked like Rachel. _No! Concentrate!_ Then he had a hunch; he rapidly climbed a nearby tree, looking out. He saw his quarray, a few hundred feet away.

"Rachel!" he screamed. Involuntarily the woman looked up; the moment she saw him, she turned away.

_It's her! No, it isn't! Damnit! _He was hallucinating again, seeing Rachel everywhere. This was _definitely _not the time to be doing that! He jumped down and started running; clearly she had not yet led him into a trap, but if she kept going, presumably she would lead him back to her starting point, and perhaps friends. _Wait a minute, could it be the person I thought I saw at Emily's house? _All he remembered was that it was a woman, but nothing further. His heart began racing. _She has the answers! I have to catch her!_

Bruce ran, faster than ever: desperate to catch her, yet fearful of what would happen if he did.

The woods were very thick and the ground uneven. Interestingly, the area of the forest he was in had a lot of greenery, which was unusual at this time of year. But he had no time to study the local flora; he had an enemy to capture, one who might have all the answers he was seeking.

Running up a small hill, he suddenly fell. _No, he had tripped—a root or something._ Painfully he got to his feet—and was stuck. "What the hell?"

Something had wrapped itself around his left leg. It took a while before he noticed it was a green, leafy vine. _How did that happen?_ Irritated, he reached down and tried to pull it apart; it didn't rip, not even a tiny bit. Puzzled, he hardly noticed until he saw it: another green vine had wrapped itself around his right leg.

What he saw next was simply impossible. With astonishing speed, vines erupted from the ground, more and more of them, wrapping themselves around every part of his body. He almost yelled in pain; some of them had sharp bristles and thorns, while others seemed to burn at the touch.

Fighting back panic, he struggled uselessly as these impossible vines lifted him off the ground and held him, spread-eagled and hunched over, until he could not move an inch. He was helplessly ensnared, completely vulnerable. Bruce began to panic as the blood rushed into his head. Moments later, he heard the soft footsteps of a person walking through the forest, but could not see; the way the vines held him, he was looking down at the ground. Whoever it was, they were coming towards him.

_I've been captured by plants. How could that happen? _With a jolt, he realized that he was no longer a prisoner of the supernatural, the irrational, or the impossible. Instead, he was now at the mercy of the hyperrational, the coldly scientific, of bloodless logic. _Opposite ends of the spectrum, yet equally deadly in their own way._

The business of the Joker and its aftermath had so consumed his life recently, he had all but forgotten about an older, yet equally deadly menace. One he thought had been vanquished, but now had clearly returned.

The footsteps were louder; she was almost next to him. He dreaded what was to come, hoping against hope it wouldn't be who he thought it was, but knowing that there was but one explanation for his predicament, one author for this madness.

Slowly the vines turned him right-side up. She did not disappoint. The tall woman stood before him, pale as a ghost, dressed as he remembered to this day: a short dark green skirt and open-blouse, showing off her fishnet-clad legs and black-bra bosom to maximum effect. Long dark gloves covered her slender hands and forearms.

She approached him until they were nose to nose. He struggled, but could not move an inch. Almost touching, the face of an angel stared at him with placid curiosity. Long red hair partially covered her blazing green eyes. There was a slight smile on her dark-green lips.

"Hello, darling," Poison Ivy said sweetly. "You've come back to me. I'm so grateful!"


	5. Chapter 5

5  
bargaining 2

* * *

"I missed you so," Ivy cooed.

"I can't say the same," Bruce replied in a cold, flat tone of rejection, betraying neither anger nor fear, nor, he hoped, desire.

The beautiful—and deadly—Doctor Isley cocked her head slightly to one side, looking penetratingly at him. "Are you certain, Bruce?" She drew out the pronunciation of his name into a long, wet, phrase; turning it into an obscenity. _Like herself._

Bruce tried to turn away, but the vines imprisoning him held him rigidly in place.

"What do you think of my creations?" she asked. Now her voice was cool and flat, with none of the seductive overtones she had used before. That scared him a little. _If she doesn't want to play, she might think it's time to kill…_

"I admit, you make good weed," Bruce quipped.

Ivy's eyes narrowed. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw the fingers on her left hand move. Instantly the vines tightened, thorns digging into his chest. He grunted as the breath was driven out of him.

"As I'm sure you realize, they are genetically-modified." She sounded like a professor again. "Carbon nanotubes replacing cellulose, making them as strong as steel." She gently stroked the leaves on the vine wrapped around his neck. Maybe it was his imagination, but he swore it cooed. "Add a selective grafting of animal muscle cells, and I have created flora with the strength of the deadliest of animals." She beamed at him, showing perfectly white teeth.

"I'm less interested in botany lessons than how you managed to escape from prison," he growled, almost as Batman would. That was probably a mistake, but it was vital he learned the truth—assuming he managed to survive this, of course, which was looking somewhat dubious at the moment.

She cocked a perfectly-arched eyebrow. "The feds never lost interest in my talents. A few months after, they had me transferred to a federal prison. In Louisiana, I think." Now her smile became positively lethal. "Let's just say the guards there underestimated my powers, unlike the Batman." Her smile faded at the mention of his name. "But enough of the agent of the Machine; it is you that brings me back to accursed Gotham City."

"Well, you have my undivided attention," he said dryly. Bruce's mind was racing: less than six months ago, under the guise of a terrorist group named Green Dawn, Isley had unleashed a vicious campaign of ecoterrorism on Gotham, killing hundreds and causing untold damage to the life of the city. Investigating from the perspective of both the Batman and Bruce Wayne, he had managed to discover that the mild-mannered Doctor Isley was in fact Poison Ivy, leader of Green Dawn with insane plans to destroy humanity in the name of saving Mother Nature. Thanks to the peerless scientific detective work of Fox, they managed to isolate a chemical which was uniquely destructive to Ivy and her genetically-engineered powers to use and resist poison, and just when all seemed lost and Ivy had him trapped (just like she did now), her arrogance and overconfidence allowed Batman to infect her with it, thus neutralizing her and stopping her plan to unleash a deadly plague in the nick of time.

Stopping Green Dawn, alas, was the best part of the affair. Afterward, she somehow got off on an insanity plea and was remanded to Arkham. The botched state prosecution of her crimes had cost Rachel the DA position which had been awarded to her after her boss had been murdered by Ra's' agents. Beyond following the news, he had put Ivy out of his mind, concentrating instead on finishing off the mob. He had heard nary a peep of Ivy being transferred to another prison or about her escape. _If I survive this, I'm going to have a word with Gordon,_ he thought sourly.

"I've come back to you, because I want to help you," Ivy said, and she sounded amazingly sincere.

"Really? How so?" Isley had ingratiated herself with Wayne Enterprises, in order to obtain needed supplies. Bruce had allowed it to happen, hoping she would be a lead back to Green Dawn. Unaware of the extent of her powers, Ivy managed to use her devilish mind-influencing chemistry on him, which allowed her to steal what she needed. Fortunately, Fox and Alfred, who knew him so well, had observed the change in his behavior, and managed to clear his head just in time.

Assuming Ivy didn't want to kill him (and if she did, she could have done so already), obviously she wanted his help in something. _It can't hurt to hear her price; maybe she'll let me go in return._ He raced to think of a way to sound convincing, as it clearly was the only way he would survive this.

She suddenly pouted, her face sad and pathetic… yet also irresistible… "I heard what happened to Rachel," she said sadly. "I'm so sorry."

"What?" That was the last thing he expected her to say. "DA Dawes was just a childhood friend, nothing more," he said in a well-practiced matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Ivy smiled—again, a very compelling yet chilling gesture. "Bruce, please. Even an amateur on personal relations like me can see how you really felt about her."

"It's a shame she's dead, but that's life. Gotta move on." _If only I believed that!_

"From any other man with your wealth and status, I might believe that." She stepped closer. "But I know your heart, Bruce Wayne," she whispered. "She was a child of your house staff, a childhood friend. When your parents were murdered, she was your only link to the life you lost."

"Congratulations, you've memorized my biography to the letter," he said, trying to keep the disdain casual instead of heated.

The retort did not faze Ivy at all. "You spoke at her funeral. An expansive gesture for one such as you. You didn't speak at any of the others."

"She was Dent's fiancée, I had nothing to do with her."

"Hmm. A non-sequitur to my prior statement. I find it interesting that you would volunteer that information," she replied. _Damn you Bruce, think before you speak!_

"Yes, Rachel is dead. I wished Batman could have saved her, but he didn't, he saved Dent instead." This time, he got the tone right: miffed, but not upset or angry.

"Which raises the question of why he killed him later, but that's not my concern."

"No one understands this Batman guy," he said without a trace of irony. _I guess she really did forget_, Bruce thought with some relief. When Ivy last had him in a helpless position like this, he told her Batman was Bruce Wayne. That surprised her enough to make her let her guard down and kiss him, which allowed him to infect her with the chemical that destroyed her powers. From what Gordon told him, Ivy appeared to have no recollection of events after they first began to fight; something to do with being poisoned by her own toxins. _Sometimes you just get lucky,_ he had thought, relieved. So long as she did not connect Batman to Bruce Wayne, his chances improved. _Although, I wonder if she might seek out Batman as well—_

Ivy was irritated. "Batman is irrelevant. It is us I wish to discuss. I want to make you an offer."

"I'm listening."

"I can see, but your attention is not what I want. I seek your assent."

"That will depend on what you're offering."

Ivy stepped back and held her arms out to the side, allowing him to get a full view of her figure. "Myself."

Something prickled on Bruce's body. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Your feeble attempts to mislead me were in vain, Bruce Wayne. I know you loved Rachel Dawes. I can smell it from your pheromonic reactions to her name." She licked her lips lasciviously. "I can taste your desire for her." Abruptly she was gentle again instead of coy. "I lack her childhood familiarity with you, but I can give you everything else a man wants from a woman."

The way she said that, in such an innocent, almost school-girl type of way, made Bruce tremble. _I had so often fantasized about Rachel telling me she loved me like that! Damn you, Isley! What witchery do you have over me?_

"I'm not lacking for female companionship these days," he lied. "What do you have to offer besides your looks?"

Ivy's mouth opened in a perfect-O of outrage; Bruce was intensely suspicious of the genuineness of it. "You should ask that of all the empty-headed actresses and models I've seen you with. All of them combined couldn't match a fraction of my intelligence!" _Sadly, that was true._ She continued: "Think of it, you could do whatever you wanted with me. I couldn't go to the police to complain, could I?"

"Your criminal record is a definite minus," he said dryly.

She wriggled her body in _that _way, the way guaranteed to make a man sit up and notice (Bruce couldn't sit, but he definitely noticed). "I know what men want, what they really want to do with the women in their lives." The ugliness of words contrasted with the beauty of her features, the movement of her curves… "Unlike a celebrity model or actress, you could use me, hurt me, as much as you want, whenever you wanted, and I could not complain. Just lock me up in a greenhouse for the rest of my life, and I'll be at your mercy." Abruptly she came up to him and hugged him, in a very convincing rendition of affection. He could smell her hair; it sank deep into the recesses of his nose, triggering very primitive thoughts…

…To break them, he reflected on what she wanted and expected him to do to her. When Bruce did so, it made him sick. _Rachel would never demean herself before the man she loved like you do. Just shows you don't even know the meaning of the word 'love', Ivy._ "Thanks, but no thanks," he said, not entirely convincingly.

She didn't let go of him; instead she placed her body against his. Bruce trembled. She whispered in his ear: "If you require issue, I could provide that as well." '_Issue' Is she talking about kids?_ "My genetic record is exemplary, and I have great skill in the care of all life forms."

Bruce almost vomited _What kind of a crazy woman would talk that way about having and caring for children?_ He was positively horrified by Ivy now; her cold disdain for humanity was bad enough, but that she would willingly allow herself to be degraded by him was even worse. _No sane woman would debase herself like she's doing. It can only be because she wants something even worse in return…_

Despite his disgust, he had to continue playing along: "Quite the offer," he murmured. "And what do you want in return?"

Finally she released. Peering into his eyes, Ivy smiled shyly. "Oh, nothing much. Just a greenhouse to live in during the day. And a lab to work in at night—except when you require me to service you, of course."

_Of course. _"A lab? Why do you need a lab?"

"Just to perfect my little babies, of course." Once more Ivy stroked the vines, and again Bruce swore he heard them coo.

"They seem quite healthy already."

"They have one great flaw: they require more oxygen than they can absorb from the air. Once I figure out in the lab how to allow them to breathe the oxygen they create naturally, then they will be self-sustaining in the wild."

'_Breathe the oxygen they create naturally', Bruce said to himself. _A horrifying possibility suddenly occurred to him: "That's your plan—you're going to make all plants in the world oxygen-breathers. When they breathe up all their oxygen, there'll be nothing left for everyone else! All animals on the planet will die, especially us!"

The gentle seductiveness instantly disappeared from Ivy's face, replaced by icy fury. "Well done, Bruce Wayne. I should have known better than to underestimate your intelligence. Clearly, you don't think only with this like all other men." She grabbed him roughly down there; it was all Bruce could do not to yelp in pain and pleasure.

Bruce felt an odd sense of release: the choice was clear. "I'm your prisoner, Ivy, and you can obviously do whatever you want with me," he said calmly, without any anger. "So go ahead and kill me, because I will never agree to your plans."

Ivy pouted. "But I don't want to kill you, Bruce. I want to complete you. I want to make you happy!"

"You want to destroy the world," he said contemptuously.

"That too, but I am willing to be the Eve to your Adam. What more could a man want than to be the sole father of a future redeemed humanity?"

"I like humanity the way it is," he growled.

"I highly doubt that," Ivy replied. She hesitated for a moment. "I had hoped to gain your voluntary assent, but failing that…" She leaned in closer.

Now Bruce did not hide his attempt to break free. With all his strength he thrashed about, ignoring the thorns cutting deeply into his flesh. Ivy frowned, then gestured with her right hand. A vine with red flowers came up to his cheek and scratched him. Instantly he was paralyzed.

"You remember, don't you?" Ivy smiled sweetly, sickly. "I promise, it will be just as wonderful as before." Unable to resist, Bruce mutely stared as Ivy kissed him, passionately, her tongue exploring his. From her cold lips came a strange warm feeling; he remembered it, and tried to ignore it, but it flowed through him, reaching every part of his body. Most of all it filled his mind, and all he could do was focus on her face, gaze into its loveliness. A raging desire filed him; all he wanted to do was dive into her, do whatever he could to her; and for that, he would do anything, anything at all…

"By now you should be properly stimulated," she said conversationally. "Tell me, Bruce Wayne, did you love Rachel?"

Sweat poured down his forehead. He wanted to say no, but how could he lie to her? It would make her unhappy, and all he wanted was to make her happy—

"—Yes, I loved her," he finally breathed. A momentary release filled him, but soon after again he was consumed with the desire to follow her every word.

"Of course you did. And do you desire me?"

_no... no!… No… No!… NO!… _

"Yes… but… but…"

"But what?"

He couldn't say it, it would make her unhappy, he couldn't make her unhappy—"I… don't… love… you…"

"No? Why not? Tell me, tell me everything!"

Bruce's mind flashed back to a dinner he had with Rachel, not long after Ivy had gotten off in state court. He remembered the pleasure he had from her company, free of any romantic attachment at the time…

…_he then remembered how later that night, he had visions of Ivy, desires to do exactly what she offered him now, but it repulsed him, for he knew her true nature…_

…_the days and months flew by… the dark desires of Batman both attracted and repulsed him… he wanted to fight crime… he wanted to leave it behind… Dent was the savior, who could free him of the burden he had taken… Dent had claimed Rachel, who thought he would never come back to her… his salvation was his downfall, but he refused to believe it… _

…_and now they were both gone, lost to the madness of the Joker… he hated, yet he loved… he had lashed out in revenge… he yearned to embrace, to lose himself in another who could share his life the way he had imagined with Rachel…_

…_Ivy offered herself to him… she could take Rachel's place… but she could never be her… she was evil… insane… _

…_desirable…_  
…_disgusting…_  
…_free…_  
…_a prison…_  
…_dazzling…_  
…_foul…_  
…_right…_

"…because… you're… you're…"

Ivy leaned in closer. "Because I'm what?"

"…wrong."

Ivy frowned. Perhaps reacting to her moods, the vines tightened their grip further, cutting off the blood to his brain; everything became hazy.

Her voice was hard as iron: "Your body will feed these trees. That is the fate of all animals!"

Bruce welcomed his impending demise. _Finally I will be free of my pain…_

"What's this?" Ivy's fingernail was inches from his face, carrying agonizing death with it. The vines loosened their grip, and Bruce began to breathe normally. Despite his reprieve, he was angry. _Just get it over with!_

Ivy ran a finger along his temples. She held it before her: a glistening white powder was on it.

She sniffed it. "I do not recognize it. No worry, I can find out." Ivy licked the powder off her finger; a most stimulating act, despite the situation. _Pamela Isley: a murderer, but also always the scientist…_

"Psychoactive. I taste serotonin, neurotransmitters. It has hallucinogenic properties—gah!" As Ivy exclaimed, suddenly the world was swallowed up by grayness.

* * *

_Images flashed in Bruce's mind: he was a little girl, tall and skinny, picked on by all the other girls… she was a little boy, happy, content… she found solace in books, which held truth, unlike the lies people told each other… his parents were lying in a pool of their own blood… she was marching alongside her parents, protesting the destruction of the rain forests, outraged at the blight that was humanity, poisoning the world to self-destruction… he was alone in the house that was now a prison, seething with rage…_

…_she looked at herself in the mirror… her face changed, from gaunt to beautiful… he became bigger, stronger… her hair, once frazzled and tied up in pony-tails, became shimmering and sleek… he was the epitome of teenage crushes, yet his heart was cold… boys who once teased her, now pursued her with unwelcome tenacity… girls whispered behind his back, working up the courage to be with him…_

…_strange men came with promises of money if all she would do was their twisted bidding… beautiful women approached, seeking favors, willing to abase themselves for his grant of remuneration… she left it all behind in college, focused on the truth, the drive to save nature… he wandered the streets, lost, refusing to accept what others wanted so he could do what he was meant to do… at the height of her academic career, she had no choice but to debase herself to Woodrue, all to get her degree… he stood there, watching, as Chill died, led away by Rachel's touch…_

_He was her… she was him… locked in a mutual mental embrace… it was terrifying, incomprehensible; impossible to science, she rejected it, but could not escape…_

…_it was strangely familiar, and began to make sense… Ra's was right, there was a world beyond rationality, and this was his entrance into it… In control, Bruce walled off all thought of the Dark Knight… and reached out into Isley's mind…_

…_she was like a beautiful watch, working in perfect harmony with logic, dispassionate, remorseless… but like him, still haunted by a childhood rage… hers had been nurtured by her parents, who in their zeal to save the world paid little heed to their daughter's needs… her intelligence increased exponentially, to a point where everyone around her seemed slow and dull-witted… years of degradation and humiliation, as she was forced to serve the very companies which consumed the world… until one day… she finally had enough… her brilliant mind twisted on itself, it came up with a terrible solution… and Ivy was born…_

…_Bruce pitied her, for he could see the parallels with his own life, how the choices she made led her to her downfall… perhaps if she had embraced love earlier, she would have had greater empathy with her fellow man… for love was the only thing that mattered in the end, beyond science, or even nature itself…_

…_love…what does he know of love?… _

…_now Bruce's thoughts became twisted, darkened… he saw what was happening, but could not stop it…_

…_girls upon girls… of course he had girls… but it was all an act, a façade… he was playing with the girl, who could only be Dawes… they were running in the yard, he was falling… he was somber, alone in his room… she was looking up, waving good-bye, sadness on her face… she was leaving… moving away… he did not dwell on her, consumed by rage, yes, but she was still there, always there… they were dancing together, he likes her, but he's thinking like a man, looking at others, more beautiful… they were fighting, she knows about his anger, wants to help, but he resists, turns her away… he wanted to kill Chill, she is outraged… he is ashamed…_

…_there is another… more beautiful… yet repulsive… he wants her… he fears her… he wants me, he despises me…_

…_he is alone in his apartment, she is there… they kiss… but she refuses, turns him away…_

…_she is assaulted, ravaged by her kidnappers… begging for her life, she is with child!… she burns, there is nothing left… he says words of comfort to those assembled, but inside he rages with grief, at loss… he stands over her grave, wishing he was with her, forever…_

…_he is alone, lost without her… unable to move on…_

_

* * *

_

"Uh…" Bruce gurgled. The frenzy of thoughts were fading from his head, but the images were so intense, they still dazzled him.

"Poor Bruce."

"What?"

"I was right, you did love her. And you loved me, too!" Ivy frowned. "Perhaps, not as much as her, but then again, she's dead, and I'm alive." Again she stepped in front of him, a seductive smile on her face. "If you can't be with the one you love, why not love the one you're with?"

Bruce had had enough of this. "I will never love you, Isley. I would rather be dead with Rachel for eternity, than spend one more waking minute in your presence."

"Hmpf. I'll take that as a no." She came up right next to him, nose-to-nose, their eyes only inches away. She filled his entire vision. "But the spark is still there. It will always be there, I know now. Whatever that was that's in your system, I could see your soul."

"You don't believe in souls. I know."

"Yes, and I also know neither do you! But whatever that was, I accept its truth." She scratched him; his body began to burn!

"Murderer, that's all you'll ever be!" Bruce cried as the pain became unbearable.

"I'm not going to kill you, Bruce Wayne. I'm going to teach you a lesson." She slowly backed away. "The pain you are feeling is the pain of your past. You can continue to dwell in it, or you can embrace the future. My future." She began to fade from his vision. "I shall await your reply in your dreams, Bruce Wayne. Forget about the dead; embrace life. Embrace me."

She was lying; he was about to die. Enraged, Bruce cursed her with every fiber of his being, as everything faded to chaotic blackness.

* * *

"Master Wayne, can you hear me?"

"Uh-huh." Bruce slowly got up. "Where am I?"

"Much deeper in the forest than you should be," Alfred replied. "When you were missing, I tracked you down on the detection grid." He grimaced. "Sir, I really am getting too old to be saving your life like this."

Bruce got up and surveyed the area. All the green plants, the living vines that had trapped him, were gone. There was plenty of dried out husks, but nothing recognizable from his encounter. Just to be sure, he picked up a stalk of what looked like a vine. _Hopefully Lucius can analyze it. _

"Thank you, Alfred. Let's go home." He began walking, but Alfred stopped him.

"Sir, what's that?"

"What's what, Alfred?" Bruce turned around. On the ground not far away was a green leaf, with a conspicuous amount of white powder on it.

The memories were hazy, but increasingly vivid. _Could it be?_ He decided; reaching down, he carefully picked it up and wrapped it on itself, pocketing it.

"We'll find out what it is."

"I take it there's a good reason for you being out here, sir."

"No, but there was a reason alright."

"I can't wait to hear it," Alfred said blandly.

"I can't wait to tell it." _Not really…_

* * *

"Why didn't they tell us Isley had escaped?"

"Because not only they would have to reveal their incompetence at allowing her to escape, they would also suggest the reason she was in their custody in the first place."

"You mean, that they wanted her to work with the government about biological warfare experiments."

"Exactly."

Lucius shook his head. "You can really be a cynical man at times, Mister Wayne."

"Thank you. It's a useful skill in these dark times, don't you think."

Lucius did not respond. "I'm just glad you're alive, Bruce," Alfred said, still shaken by the tale Bruce had told…with edits. "What on earth made her believe you would join her?"

_The easy question._ "You remember how she looks, well, she hasn't changed a bit," Bruce said, whistling wolfishly, which evoked grim chuckles from the two elderly men. "And she tried to use her mental potion on me again."

"Were you able to resist this time? You didn't have the antidote with you," Lucius said.

"Yes," Bruce lied. "Well, not exactly. She wanted to know if I really 'loved' her, and of course I said no. If she asked whether I would have been up for a one-night stand, she'd have gotten a definite 'maybe'."

Again the three of them chuckled. Lucius asked: "Still, why did she let you live after you declined to join her? Not that I'm objecting, mind you!"

_The hard question. _"She knows, or at least suspects, at some level about what drives me." He paused in quick silent remembrance of his parents. "The first time, I was just barely able to convince her that my… drive… meant I wanted to join her cause." He hesitated, trying carefully to phrase his next response. "Under questioning, she found out how I felt about Rachel, and about some of the… false feelings I had for her as a result of her chemicals. She thinks that once I get over Rachel, I'll be… more willing to accept her and take her in."

Lucius and Alfred tried and failed to hide the skepticism in their face. "I must admit, sir, I don't think I would have bought that, but then again I'm not a woman."

_Nor did you have direct access to my most inner thoughts. _"Batman can go after her again if she sticks around Gotham, which I doubt she will. We just need to take more precautions on the civilian side."

"Sounds good, Mister Wayne." Lucius got up and stretched. "I think it's time I called it a night."

"Do you wish a ride, sir?"

"Thank you Alfred, I'm good."

"Good night, Lucius."

"Good night, gentlemen." Lucius made his way downstairs. Before leaving, Alfred paused, throwing a meaningful look Bruce's way.

"Something wrong, Alfred?"

Alfred hesitated, then finally said: "No, sir. Pleasant dreams."

"Right back at you, Alfred."

* * *

A week later, there was the first touch of snow falling in and around Gotham. Bruce Wayne stared out the window as the sun quickly set, shading the area in twilight dusk.

The past week, he had hardly noticed where he was and what he was doing. All talk about work, both at Wayne Enterprises, and with regards to Batman, had faded in importance if not necessarily in attention. There was but one thing he had on his mind: what that mysterious powder was, and what it could do for him.

_Once is accident; twice is coincidence; three times is enemy conspiracy._ The powder's role in his… vision with Ra's seemed to have no significance; he had spent most of the time afterwards trying to deny its reality. When it showed up again in his visions of killing the Joker, again he dismissed it as coincidence, although getting confirmation that the Joker had somehow self-inflicted the very injuries he had seen himself wrought shook him. But now, with incontrovertible proof of his interaction with Isley, and the shared visions they had once she had ingested the powder, the truth was inescapable: this drug opened the door to shared mental visions, perhaps extending even beyond the grave.

_Beyond the grave…_ It was impossible, but he could not deny that he had seen Ra's the first time. And since Ra's died, that meant either that returning from the dead was possible, or communicating with the dead was possible. And on that impossible deduction, Bruce's obsession had been born anew. Of course, he did not want to spend any more time with Ra's. Or even Isley. And certainly not the Joker. But if this drug did what he suspected it could do…

…he could see Rachel again. _Even if she's dead._

Impossible? Of course. That's why he had to make sure.

Bruce had given Alfred the weekend off again. For once, Alfred seemed reluctant to take it, perhaps suspecting what Bruce had in mind. But after gentle persuasion, Alfred reluctantly agreed. _Part of it is the advancement of age._ Bruce shuddered; one day, in the not too distant future, Alfred's time would come to an end as well. _But it's different with him. Different than Rachel…_

In all probability, Lucius was right; this powder was just a psychoactive chemical, and only created strong delusions. _I just hope that my delusion is strong enough to free me from my guilt and let me go on with my life._ In a way, it was even worse than the obsession which drove him to take up the mantle of the Batman. _Batman I can put away—no matter how difficultly. Rachel—Rachel I have to let go. But I don't know how. If the drugs help, then bring on the drugs!_

It was now nighttime; outside the snow was coming down more heavily. Bruce went to lock the doors of his bedroom, then changed his mind. _If something happens, Alfred has a right to find out himself. _He turned down the lights, with nothing but two candles on his desk illuminating his spacious bedroom. Clothed in pajamas, he took a seat at his desk. In front of him was a small pile of the powder on a plate, and a glass of water. He took half of the powder and put it in the glass, stirring with a spoon until it was all dissolved.

His hands trembling, he took the glass to his lips and drank it all. The powder had a slightly chalky taste, but otherwise had no immediate effect. Putting the glass down, he went to the bed and lay atop it, arms folded on his chest, eyes closed. _Wherever I go, there I am._

The flicker of the candles danced lazily on his white-painted ceiling. White and black danced, a flurry of ineffable shapes. Time passed without notice. The flickers slowed down, merging. White and black became gray. Gray became all.

Bruce was alone, but that didn't bother him. He had always been alone. He just waited for something to change. Change took forever to come.

Finally it did.

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__Unfortunately I need to take another writing hiatus in order to study for the bar exam. I will resume all fanfics in August. In the meantime, please read and review!_


	6. Chapter 6

6  
depression

* * *

What was featureless gray was now a dark ruin. Out of the corner of Bruce's eye, something spun through the air, the weak light glinting off its silver roundness.

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: bad side.

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman in the stomach. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

...The blackness became gray again, silent and still. Then the nothingness came alive in Bruce's mind...

* * *

…_"Dent, Harvey Dent. Pleasure to meet the boss at last."_

_"Perhaps you haven't been keeping up on current events—"_

_"— Of course I have. It's complete bull—crap, pardon my language, ma'am, what happened to you."_

_"Well, at least I'm walking out on my own power. Finch wasn't so lucky—"_

_"—wasn't so lucky." Laughter._

_"I would have stepped down anyway. Next election's this fall."_

_"Hmm. Didn't think you were the one to step away from a fight."_

_"Politics, elections, campaigning, that's not my cup of tea."_

_"That's the only thing that'll save Gotham. Someone taking charge and naming names."_

_"One person can't do it alone."_

_"That's why we elect leaders, to inspire by example. When I get elected, you'll see."_

_"We're lawyers, Dent. It's our duty to uphold the law. Please don't forget that when you sweep into power."_

_"I'm going to make a difference, Miss Dawes. I swear it."_

_"Then I wish you the best of luck, counselor. Have a nice day."_

_"Hey, you free for lunch?"_

_"Maybe later."_

_

* * *

_

The grayness disappeared, shrinking to a silvery circle. The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand bad side.

"You don't approve of my criminal justice reforms?" Harvey—Two-Face—was pointing his gun at the head of Gordon's son. The way he stood, his undamaged side was hidden in shadow. Instead, an unholy obscenity stared back at him: ugly scarred tissue that resembled burnt barbeque. Fluids dribbled out of his mouth, and a single eye, starkly terrifying in its utter whiteness stared at him unceasingly.

"What the hell got into you?" Batman shouted, his voice equally exasperated, outraged, and imploring.

"Sorry, you must always seek Justice's approval." Two-Face tossed his coin in the air with his right hand, while keeping the barrel of the gun against the boy's head.

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: good side.

"Justice approves your question, and deigns to answer. This is the only way—"

"—Flipping a coin to decide who lives or dies, are you fuc—"

"—Justice does _not_ approve of your contemptuous attitude, Batman." He flipped, and the coin fell, landing in his hand: bad side.

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman in the stomach. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

* * *

…_The blackness began to speak…_

_...The condemned policewoman was at the point of babbling: "...they got me early on, my mother's hospital bills—"_

_"—Don't!" Every fiber of his old self wanted to tear her to pieces, to hurt her, to make her suffer for what she did to Rachel. But that was not in keeping with his new understanding of Justice. _Justice is blind,_ he told himself._ Justice is fair. What's good enough for a monster like the Joker, is good enough for a monsteress like Ramirez.

_He flipped the coin._

_"...I'm sorry..."_

_The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: good side. Justice had spoken._

_"Live to fight another day, officer." Then he belted her in the temple; she crumpled instantly._

_He stepped away from her still form. Justice had spoken - he could not punish her anymore. But that didn't mean he had to save her. Instead, he withdrew into the shadows and waited. He wondered how Justice would treat Officer Ramirez now._

_Minutes passed, then he heard something: raucous voices, indistinct. The haphazard shuffle of young men not entirely sober, staggering through the night, laughing. The voices grew louder. The possibilities swam before him, and he was increasingly pleased. Truly Justice had and would be served tonight!_

_They were upon her, five or six, relatively young. "Yo! Look what we have here!"_

_"Ooo, look's like Mamacita's had too much!"_

_"She's gonna have some more!"_

_There was a rustling sound, then some happy shouts. And another voice, much higher, screaming in terror. He moved fractionally, to better take in the scene, but was otherwise motionless and silent, hidden in the darkness. _

_Did I cause this? he wondered. Am I responsible? Disappointingly, his faith in Justice was still weak, uncertain. But as the action before him descended into ever greater savagery, Justice gave him a blinding insight, so simple and powerful in its truth, that all doubt was swept away. _

_Justice is not a one-time thing; it is constantly dispensed, moment to moment. As a public official, he could dispense Justice, but the world enacted Justice as well. An infinite series of random events, all summed to make the world what it was. _

_The cruelness of the world was not due to the wickedness of men, not ultimately. It was due to the imposition of arbitrary and capricious rules designed to capture what could not be captured, to define that which escaped definition. Morality, ethics, philosophy - all a joke! By insisting on standards that inevitably failed, they left people worse off than they would have been had they simply continued to follow what he used to ignorantly call 'the law of the jungle.' Far from being something to be avoided, condemned, the law of the jungle was nothing other than Justice itself._

_At once, the tension in him faded. All doubts washed away; he felt almost dreamy. By the time he landed from Cloud 9, he realized that the gangbangers had done their thing and left, moving on to whatever else suited their fancy. _

_He stepped out of the shadows and beheld their handiwork. In his former life, what he saw would have evoked horror, outrage, indignation._

_Now... he felt nothing but the even-tempered neutrality of Justice itself. _

_He left the scene without hesitation, without worry. Actually, that wasn't entirely true, he admitted to himself. Soon he would have to dispense Justice again, and like what happened with Ramirez, he could feel an irrational urge to hurt them all. That would not do; it would not be Justice. He had to wait, to be patient, before Justice for Rachel could be dispensed._

_Patience!_

* * *

"You monster!" Batman was shaking in his attempt to contain his rage.

"What?" Harvey's voice was astonishingly innocent sounding, like a little child. "Even you could see that I acted Justly. After all, did you not do the same just recently?"

Batman pretended not to hear that. "You created the peril with Ramirez; your failure to act led to her death!"

"Only in our misbegotten legal system is that true. But not according to Justice."

"To hell with your justice!" He leaped—

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman in the stomach. He staggered and fell...

"...Justice is everything, Batman. Never forget: you too are not above and beyond the dicates of Justice..."

...everything faded to black...

* * *

_Grayness._

_Soft classical music was playing._

_They cuddled on the couch in his living room. From the windows, the lights from the spires of midtown Gotham blazed in the darkness, shining, but the rest of his place was completely dark._

_She was to the left of him, leaning into his right shoulder. Her left arm reached out around his right side, while her right arm was wrapped (protectively?) around her chest. It seemed an oddly uncomfortable position for her to be in, but it had happened naturally, as earlier in the evening she was sitting next to him, then put her head on his left shoulder, then gradually slumping down._

_He liked the trendlines._

_Her head was right under his nostrils, so every breath he took he inhaled her fragrance. His left arm was stroking her left side, as she was stroking his. They moved sequentially, simultaneously. One at a time. Not at all. _

_It was very nice._

_"Would you like something to drink?" It was the first thing either of them had said in over ten minutes._

_"I'm fine."_

_He retreated into silence. Normally it was very difficult for him to just let time spin away like this – he always wanted to get the most out his hours, whether at work or play, love or war. But Rachel was different; somehow, someway, the fearsome pressures of life in Gotham didn't seem to faze her. Sure, she was as overworked and underappreciated as everyone who tried to live right, but she had a genuinely optimistic spirit. Not the repellent false bravado that so many people who thought themselves more important than they really were; hers was a quiet positivity that invigorated you the more you knew her._

_It stirred powerful, frightening feelings in him. _Not yet. Soon, very soon, but not yet...

…_Abruptly she straightened. Harvey was afraid she was about to call it a night, but instead she turned around to face him, her face inches from his. Smiling demurely, she said: "This is very nice."_

_"You make it so."_

_Her smile became even broader, and she slowly leaned in to kiss him. Automatically he responded, pushing and pulling her closer. She got up and straddled him-all thought of maintaining self-control vanished. He let his animal spirit take over..._

_...and as soon as he did so, she pulled away, as if noticing the change._

_"I'm sorry," they both said simultaneously. "I shouldn't have led you on like that."_

_"I should have kept my hands off," he conceded. _

_"No, I liked your hands exactly where they were, and where they were going."_

_Harvey blinked in confusion. _Mixed signals!

_Now she pulled away completely and was sitting back at his left side. _Damn!_ "It's not safe."_

_Now he understood. "Right. You and Finch. I'm sorry."_

_Rachel vehemently shook her head. "No! That's—well, that's not it."_

_"What is it, then?"_

_"Your position—and my position—it's a dangerous place to be in."_

_"It hasn't even been a month. Maroni hasn't even offered a bribe yet, that's how little he thinks of me."_

_"I know you, Harvey Dent. You're going to shake things up, I can feel it. I just..." She stopped speaking._

_"Just what?"_

_She turned to look at him, pain clearly evident in her eyes. "I don't want to be a burden... or a weakness."_

_Now he really understood. "This is a rough town, you know it as well as I do. There are plenty of people who aren't as fortunate as us, who live right on the edge of the darkness, but they live their lives, buy a house, raise a family. No reason we can't either."_

_Rachel smiled sadly. "Sometimes, for people who want to save the world, they're probably better off if those close to them don't get in the way."_

What the hell did that mean? _It almost brought him to the point of anger, so he quickly decided to change the subject. "Alright, forget about us for now." He turned off the music and turned on the lights. "I need to ask your opinion on something."_

_"Anything, Harvey."_

_Out of reflex he looked around. A ridiculous response, but he had to be discrete. "Your gut feeling: can we trust the Batman?"_

_Her eyes narrowed. "Little late to be talking work, don't you think?" Her voice was light in tone, but he could instantly see that she was trying to hide something._

_"Look, I'm sorry I put you through the third degree when I started, but no one in the police or the DA's office is talking about their relationship with the Batman—"_

_"—maybe there isn't one."_

_"Come on, we all know someone inside is feeding him info. Maybe even helping out." He sighed, rubbing his temples. What had started as such a promising evening was now becoming like another day on the job. "You gotta understand, the mayor, the bigwigs, none of them trust the Batman. Don't get me wrong, we're all glad he saved Gotham twice now, but we don't know anything about him. Can you trust someone with his abilities and resources, if you don't know who they are?"_

_"Probably not," Rachel conceded._

_"Half of me wants to hunt him down and bring him to justice. The other half of me wants to make him our own personal ninja."_

_Rachel smiled, running her hand through his hair. "And which half will prevail?"_

_"I don't know." Sighing again, he slumped back in the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Alright, we'll do it both ways. I'll tell the taskforce to keep after him, but not push them too much on it. And I'll slowly let word get out that the City wants him to play on our team."_

_Rachel stopped running her hand through his hair, but she was sitting close to him again. "Harvey, you know what I think? Forget about Batman. Just do the best you can as a D.A. And then..." her voice trailed away._

_"Then what?"_

_She was silent for a bit, as if trying to figure out what to say, then shrugged. "Maybe he'll make the first move. Reach out to you, if he thinks he can trust you."_

_Harvey smiled his election-winning grin. "Why wouldn't he trust me?"_

_She smiled mischievously in response. "If he knew you as well as I do..."_

_"...He'd probably try to beat me up."_

_"Well, he certainly wouldn't do this." And she kissed him, more deeply and passionately than she ever had before. _

_Now _that's_ more like it…_

* * *

…The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: good side.

Harvey was weeping.

"Dent, listen to me—"

"—Get away!" He brandished the gun menacingly at Batman, while clutching Gordon's son tightly around his neck.

"Just let them go, and it'll all be okay."

"Of course it will," Dent spat. "And Rachel will rise from the dead, and we'll all be one big happy friggin' family again, right?"

_Maybe not rise from the dead, but: _"It's not too late, Harvey. We can still bring Gotham back."

Dent's guffaws were half-laughter, half-choking sobs. "Back to what? Normal? You think the ten million animals packed into our fair city's boundaries want us to help them? Why should we help these ungrateful bastards? What did they ever do for us? They're the enemy!"

"You don't mean that Harvey—"

"—Of course I do! The law is a seamless web, you know! For every Joker, there's a hundred murderers out there. For every murderer, there's a hundred thieves. And for every thief, there's a hundred ordinary citizens who'll look the other way at the right time, for the right price. Add that all up? The great stinking cesspool that's Gotham, that's what!" He tried to spit, but couldn't muster the saliva; it kept dribbling out of his torn mouth.

"Harvey, think of what Rachel would want. Would she want you to do what you've done? What you're about to do?"

Dent froze. He turned his head towards Batman, so that he faced him square: mutilated corpse to his right, handsome savior to his left.

"What Rachel would want is irrelevant, because she's dead, and so is Harvey Dent. Two-Face, on the other hand, just doesn't care anymore. The Joker showed him the truth: when you get down to the essence of it all, your fate is in the hands of chance. Good side—" he showed the intact face of his lucky coin; "—or bad side—" He flipped it over, showing the charred side.

"So now you'd _really_ leave a man's life to chance!"

Dent/Two-Face smiled, or at least tried to. "Well played, Batman. But you really shouldn't get mad at me. I'm only doing what the world does for us. To us. One moment, you live. The next—" he shrugged. "It'll all balance out in the end."

"So all the criminals you put away, all those murderers, rapists, robbers. People tried and convicted in courts of law. You'd rather just flip a coin, and let half of them go? Would there be justice if those who went free killed other innocents? Maybe you should stop crying about Rachel then, because by your standard, she got justice, right?" He tried to put as much hate as he could behind the words, to shock Harvey out of his insane delusion. _Even though these words a two-edged sword, wounding me as deeply as it does you..._

Dent's mouth quivered slightly, as did the gun in his hand. "Maybe you should have been a lawyer yourself Batman," he said in a quiet deadly voice. "You're pretty good with words, almost as good as you are with your fists."

"The Joker's finished, Harvey, I caught him. _Without_ killing anyone," he emphasized. "He'll face justice soon enough."

Dent did not respond immediately. He then said: "What kind of 'justice'? The system's version of justice? Yours? Or mine?"

"He'll face justice," Batman said simply.

Dent slowly shook his head. "There is only one kind of Justice. And it's not what you think it is..."

"For God's sake, Harvey, you'd flip a coin to let him live or die? How is that justice?"

Harvey shrugged. "Your kind of justice would give a 99.99% chance of the Joker going to prison. Capital punishment's a joke in this country, so I'd give him equal odds of living or frying. Equal odds-in other words, fifty-fifty. All that money, all that time, and for what? The same outcome as my true Justice."

"Dent, what the hell happened—"

"—and what about you, Mister Batman? When are you going to face justice for your crimes? Just before becoming D.A., I lectured a Gotham Law criminal law class, asking them to come up with a list of criminal violations that you've done in your pursuit of justice. Know what they found?" He smiled. "You've done enough so that, without too much exaggeration, you could be put away for life in prison. And if any of the people you've injured over the years die, you could even be tried for murder, and executed. Tell me, would you rather face that? Years of criminal prosecutions, where your name and acts would be drawn through the mud, and your private life, whatever it is, utterly destroyed?" Dent pointed the gun at Batman. "I think this is a much better solution." He showed the good side: "Either you get away scot free, or—" he showed the bad side: "—I blow your ass straight to hell. Let's see what Justice decrees for you." Dent flipped the coin.

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: bad side. "Let Justice be done."

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman in the stomach. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

* * *

"Now do you understand, Batman/Bruce Wayne?"

Batman was petrified by those words. Dent/Two-Face stood before him in a relaxed posture, the gun in one hand, the coin in the other. All around him was grayness.

"Just like myself, you are revealed as a duality. Look."

Bruce looked down at himself. Shocked, he saw that the right side of him was clad in a fine black business suit. It was all there: jacket, shirt, tie, belt, pants, and shoes, all perfectly normal for a regular business day. Past the middle, however...

...he was clothed as Batman, his dark grey plate armor ending exactly at the centerline. He was wearing a boot on his left leg; reaching behind him, he even felt his cape, which terminated at the center of his neck. Reaching up to touch his face, he felt the familiar hardness of his cowl. Yet just as with Harvey, his Batsuit ended exactly at the middle of his face, without a trace of an edge.

Bruce could feel his sanity begin to crack. Fighting to control it, he blurted out: "Where are we?"

Dent said: "I would ask the same question of you, Batman. Is this heaven, or hell?"

Bruce did not respond. Two-Face continued: "I am deeply puzzled and disturbed by our predicament. I never really believed in heaven and hell, but I could at least admit that if they existed, I would prefer one over the other." Dent smiled, apparently unwilling to reveal his preference. "But thanks to you, Batman, it turns out we're somewhere...else? Or in-between?"

Bruce retorted: "It doesn't matter where we are. All that matters is we have to get out of here."

Dent looked surprised. "'We', Batman? I'm dead, thanks to you."

Bruce flinched. "I didn't mean to kill you, Two-Face—"

"Of course you did, Batman. How else were you going to save dear little baby Gordon?" Dent's smile was terrible in its evil innocence.

Bruce had no answer. _I killed him. I killed Two-Face, because I had to. And therefore I killed Dent, and all the hope for Gotham City..._

"Don't worry, my dear Batman," Two-Face continued. "According to the law you have...promised... to uphold, you acted with justification. Your conscience should be clear."

"You know it's not like that, Dent," Bruce retorted. "When someone dies at your hands, you're never the same again. Kill someone, and part of you dies with them."

Two-Face shook his head. "On the contrary, I found dispensing Justice to be invigorating for the soul—"

"—So you felt pleasure when you killed Wuertz? Ramirez? Maroni and his henchmen? That doesn't sound very 'Just' to me," Batman said acidly.

"Not correct, Bruce. I actually felt nothing when all those people died, nothing at all. Why you ask? Because there was nothing left of me to feel."

"Because Rachel died?" Batman asked quizzically.

Dent snorted. "Of course not! Because I am a creature of Justice now. My human frailties are gone, and only my true essence remains."

"I thought you loved Rachel," Bruce said, his curiosity just barely able to mask his sarcasm.

"Half of me loved her," Two-Face said softly. "Whether it was my better half or not... I do not know." Dent paused. "That she is gone is... painful... but her fate was a Just one, I now understand."

"Just? She was _murdered!_ Where's the justice in _that_?"

"Justice is balance," Two-Face said. Somewhere within Batman, a nerve twitched. "For all the innocence a person may possess, there is an equal degree of guilt within. Rachel was a sinner as much as a saint, as I'm sure you know."

Before Bruce could shout him down, Dent continued: "She faced the Justice she deserved for all the Injustice she committed in her life. That it was dispensed through an act of omission by the man who loved her as much as I, is but yet another positive symbol of Justice working its way through the world."

"Rachel died because I wanted to save her!" Batman roared. "To call that 'justice' is a perversion of every possible meaning of the word!"

"But by your dispensation of Justice, I was saved," Two-Face replied calmly. "Rachel's death was _not_ in vain according to Justice. Was I not supposed to be the symbol of 'justice' that you desperately wanted, so to free you of your burden?" Dent chuckled. "A burden which, I need not remind you, is entirely due to the fact that you do not follow the true path of Justice."

"Ah yes, your wonderful, infallible, newfound system of 'Justice'," Bruce spat acerbically. "I'll be sure to chisel in a pair of dice over the scales at the Gotham Superior Courthouse."

"Sneer all you wish, Batman," Two-Face chided. "What I call Justice was proven correct by events. You're just afraid to face the truth: that your system of 'justice' which you have sworn to uphold cannot and will not give you any personal comfort, won't help you deal with the grief of losing the only woman you've ever truly loved."

Bruce repressed a shiver of rage and grief. "I will deal with Rachel's loss in my own way," he said stiffly. "Justice is about more than one person's feelings, it's about what's right and fair for everyone."

"Well said, Mister Policeman," Dent replied. "Of course, if you really believed in the law you hold so dear, perhaps you would not be so eager to violate it. 'We had to destroy the village in order to save it,' and all that." Two-Face smiled. "How many more laws will you break, trying to preserve the symbol of my broken self?"

"As many as necessary," Batman growled.

Dent nodded knowingly. "And that is why you will fail, Bruce. Because you cannot build a house on a shattered foundation."

"All I want is to give the people of Gotham the chance to save their city," Batman replied.

"Well, you won't do that here—wherever we are," Two-Face pointed at him. "So leave us, go! You know now, that the answers you seek are not here. Why do you remain?"

Bruce did not respond. Dent smiled sadly. "Because you're not seeking how to achieve justice. You're seeking the shade of Rachel Dawes. You want to commune with her spirit, bring her back from the dead!"

Batman still did not respond. Two-Face had a sneering look on it - as much as one could sneer with half a face. "Tell me, now who is the delusional one?"

Bruce finally found the energy to reply. "Sorry, Harvey. We were mistaken. All we can do now is try to amend for that mistake. Good-bye." Batman turned to leave, but as soon as he did so, Two-Face was facing him again.

Dent shook his head. "You're not leaving that easily, Bruce."

Batman responded angrily: "You want to keep me here?"

"Of course not. Go ahead, try to leave."

Bruce started walking again... but the grayness did not end, did not disappear. He did not know how long he travelled, in terms of distance or time, but he had ended up in exactly the same place he started: a big, gray nothingness.

"You cannot leave, because you do not want to leave. You're still seeking Rachel, and until you let go of her for good, your soul shall be trapped here... forever."

_No! _Was that the truth? Could he ever acknowledge it? And if he did, what would that mean?

He kept trying...

...and trying...

...and trying...

...But he always returned to the grayness.

Desperation began to build within. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity spent trying to escape, Batman decided to ask the unthinkable: "Two-Face, kill me. Please!"

Dent nodded slowly. "Very well, Bruce, I shall dispense Justice for you." Two-Face flipped the coin.

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: good side.

"Justice can be very unforgiving." Two-Face flipped the coin again.

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: good side.

"Remember, what is Fair has little to do with ordinary notions of fairness." Two-Face flipped the coin a third time.

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: good side. Two-Face shrugged. "I guess it's inevitable that in a rare once in a while, Justice screws you over anyway."

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman in the stomach. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

* * *

"You could have saved her! Why did you come after me? Why? Tell me! WHY?" Harvey/Two-Face was practically screaming at him, the gun shaking badly in his right hand. Gordon's son cried out in pain as Dent clutched him tightly.

Bruce/Batman did not respond, just as he did not respond to his similar agonized cries when he rescued Dent from the warehouse. He had no time to answer Harvey then, but felt compelled to give him an answer now.

"Because I went after her," Bruce said, his voice merely a whisper.

"I don't understand, why did you rescue me if you were going to rescue her?"

"The Joker tricked us. He told us where you both were, and I went to where he said Rachel was. Actually, you were both in the opposite place we expected. So when I arrived at Avenue X, I found you, and not her."

Dent instantly became rigid as he contemplated Bruce's words. "So... you intended to go after her, and not me. Why?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "I had to save her, even if it meant you'd be more likely to die."

Dent was silent for a moment. Then: "Because you loved her."

"I did."

"For how long?"

"Forever."

Dent lifted his head; his right eye narrowed in furrowed suspicion. Then he said flatly: "You're actually Bruce Wayne in disguise."

"I'm Batman."

"You're Bruce Wayne...and the Batman." Bruce did not respond.

Dent was staring intently at him. "Everything makes sense now. And now I wish it didn't!"

"Now you know the truth, Harvey. Put the gun down, it's over."

"Why, so I can turn myself in? Watch as everything I worked for goes down the drain? Why not end it all now?" He thrust the gun at the head of Gordon's son.

Bruce refrained from making any sudden movements. "Because I won't let you take the fall."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Bruce breathed deeply. "You killed Maroni and his two bodyguards. You killed Wuertz. And you allowed Ramirez to die."

Dent's eyes opened wide with shock. "How the hell do you know about Ramirez—"

"—I do," Bruce said curtly. "But if you put the gun down, we will tell the police that I killed all those people."

Dent's right eye opened so wide that it was as big as his lidless left one. "You can't be serious!"

"Never more serious than anything else in my life," Bruce said, his voice deeply in Batman-mode. "I'll be the foil by which your image remains clean. And the remaining criminals out there will have something new to worry about."

"But... Gordon and the police, they'll hunt you down with everything they got—"

"—They won't catch me." Dent had nothing in reply. Bruce pressed him: "So? What'll it be?"

Dent stared at Batman. "A very tempting offer, indeed. But just one problem." He raised the pistol at him. "Rachel's still dead."

"I know," Bruce said in a pained voice. "You're right, her death was my fault." He paused, then slowly undid his cowl. Removing it, he gazed into Dent's astonished face, not bothering to hold back the pain in his eyes, or the onset of tears. "Punish me if you must, just let Gordon's son go."

Dent still said nothing, so he continued: "I loved her as much as you did," Bruce said slowly. "But I knew that she loved you more, and would have chosen you over me." He felt no guilt about lying to Dent; all that mattered now was saving Gordon's son and, if he could, bringing Dent back from the abyss.

Dent still did not remove the muzzle of the gun from the boy's head. Apparently he wanted more. "If I could bring her back to you, I would, but I can't." _If only I could commune with her, that would heal him, I know it!_

Dent raised the gun and pointed it back at Bruce. "Such fine words," he said in a mocking tone of voice. "But there's no going back for me. Not unless I can have Justice my way."

Bruce nodded. "If you insist. But let the boy go, then."

Dent smiled. Forcing the boy to the ground, he put his knee in his back, took out his coin with his left hand, and flipped it.

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: bad side. "Say good bye, Batman."

Bruce did not respond, holding himself rigid, willing himself to be brave in the face of death—

—and to his ultimate horror, Dent lowered the gun back at Gordon's son and fired!

"NO!" Bruce leaped at Dent with murder in his heart-

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

Dent smiled. Forcing the boy to the ground, he put his knee in his back, took out his coin with his left hand, and flipped it.

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: good side. "Say good bye, Batman."

Bruce did not respond, holding himself rigid, willing himself to be brave in the face of death—

—and to his ultimate horror, Dent lowered the gun back at Gordon's son and fired!

"NO!" Bruce leaped at Dent with murder in his heart—

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

Dent smiled. Forcing the boy to the ground, he put his knee in his back, took out his coin with his left hand, and flipped it.

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: bad side. "Say good bye, Batman."

Bruce did not respond, holding himself rigid, willing himself to be brave in the face of death—

—and to his ultimate horror, Dent lowered the gun back at Gordon's son and fired!

"NO!" Bruce leaped at Dent with murder in his heart—

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: good side. "Say good bye, Batman."

Bruce did not respond, holding himself rigid, willing himself to be brave in the face of death—

—and to his ultimate horror, Dent lowered the gun back at Gordon's son and fired!

"NO!" Bruce leaped at Dent with murder in his heart—

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: bad side. "Say good bye, Batman."

Bruce did not respond, holding himself rigid, willing himself to be brave in the face of death—

—and to his ultimate horror, Dent lowered the gun back at Gordon's son and fired!

"NO!" Bruce leaped at Dent with murder in his heart—

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: good side. "Say good bye, Batman—"

—and to his ultimate horror, Dent lowered the gun back at Gordon's son and fired!

"NO!" Bruce leaped at Dent with murder in his heart—

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: bad side. "Say good bye, Batman—"

—and to his ultimate horror, Dent lowered the gun back at Gordon's son and fired!

"NO!" Bruce leaped at Dent with murder in his heart—

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: good side. "Say good bye, Batman."

"NO!" Bruce leaped at Dent with murder in his heart—

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

The coin fell, landing in Harvey's hand: bad side. "Say good bye, Batman."

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

* * *

**Hi everyone, after a very long hiatus, I have finally returned to finish what I've started. I apologize, but as you all know it's been a very difficult few years, and in order to survive I've had to put all my efforts into finding work and working. But now things are settling down, and I can return to the things which bring me great joy: telling stories of the characters we all love.**

**There are 2 more chapters in this story, and updates should come roughly every week, as I have several other stories to complete, and even some new ones in the works. Thanks again for your patience, and enjoy.**

**Scruffy**


	7. Chapter 7

7  
acceptance

* * *

…An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

…An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to black...

…An ear-shattering blast. The piercing blow hit Batman square in the face. He staggered and fell; everything faded to grey...

…_grayness. Between black and white. Nothing and everything…_

…_So this is where madness ends. Not in heaven. Not in hell. Not even in nothing. It just ends. And is. Forever…_

…_He did not know what to think about that. He didn't even know what he was feeling._

…_He just felt. No object to his feelings. No object to his thought. No object to anything. Perhaps that was the point, that there was no point…_

…_What am I feeling? He wondered. He felt neither rage, nor grief. He didn't feel anything. Nor did he did he feel nothing…_

…_He pondered the question for a time between nothing and infinity. He decided that he could not know. In the end, that was not strange, or frightening, depressing or terrifying. It just was…_

The grayness spoke."Bruce?"

"Hello Rachel." He wasn't sure how he felt about speaking to his dead friend and now-unattainable lover. _ I think I've forgotten—or perhaps, I no longer care?_

"You're not dead."

"You're not alive." With those words, the grayness faded to nothing. _Not an improvement._

But then it was—beyond sense and reason—for now he knew Rachel was here, even in the nothingness. _How_ she could be there when there was nothing? _I guess we'll have to find out…_

Eyes closed, Bruce stared ahead. In the nothingness, he could…well, not exactly see her, but he could _know_ she was there. It took a sudden and incredible amount of concentration to do so, but through the expenditure of what seemed like an infinite amount of effort and time, at last he could _see she_ _was wearing_ the same clothes she wore the last time he saw her—a peach blouse with black skirt and boots.

He was thinking so hard to _see_ her he could not even spare any attention to notice his own appearance, or even existence. Somewhere in his body which almost existed, he could feel the faintest roar of a turbulent sea of emotions, lapping at his thoughts, threatening to wash all away. But for now, he focused on his perception of Rachel to the exclusion of all else, and thus found he felt an abnormal yet somehow appropriate calm.

With every bit of his will, he _said:_ "Unfortunately, you're dead, and this is all in my mind."

Rachel _replied:_ "You're right, I'm dead, and this is all in your mind."

"But that doesn't mean this isn't real?"

She _smiled._ "No, it doesn't." A pause. "I don't know where we are."

"You're dead. Where else could you be, but nowhere?"

Rachel _held up _her hands."I don't think I'm alive, because the last thing I remember was the explosion…" She _shuddered._ "I don't think I'm in heaven, and I'm definitely not in hell—"

"—how do you know that?" Bruce _asked._

She _smiled._ "Because you're here with me."

Bruce _snorted_. "That doesn't help your argument."

Rachel _reached out_ _and_ _placed _a hand on him. "Maybe it does." Even though the touch was in his mind, he felt his nonexistent body shiver.

Abruptly she _snapped _her fingers_._ "I know! This is purgatory! Sister Randolph was right after all!"

"Uhh…"

Her grin_ faded._ "Right, too simple."

"Too simple." It felt good to repeat her words.

"We're somewhere beyond life, and maybe beyond death," Rachel _said._

"Wherever we are, I'm just glad to be here with you," Bruce _said_ to her softly, the words backed by a warmth and intensity of feeling he could rarely recall ever having.

Now Rachel _looked sad._ "Bruce, you're not dead, are you?"

He honestly did not know. As he pondered the question, she _began to fade_ from sight. Frantically, he tried to _see_ her again while pondering what had happened.

"I'm not dead, the last I remember is…" He _thought,_ trying to remember a life and time that seemed greater than infinitely far away. Searching in the emptiness, the memory finally returned to him: how all this craziness had began, when impossibly Ra's al-Gul had returned from the dead himself and somehow reached out from beyond the grave _into_ his head. _Complete insanity… except some drug I found made it possible for me to see into the Joker's mind, into Poison Ivy's mind, and even into Harvey's, who is also dead. And at last, I've reached Rachel—unless this is all a delusion…_

"—sometimes, in a dream, we wish for the impossible," he began to _explain, _reluctant to lie yet unwilling to explain what he thought was the truth. "We dream about it, and sometimes, in our dreams, the impossible happens."

Rachel _stared _at him_._ "Have you ever dreamed about seeing your parents again?"

"All the time," he _replied. _

"And did it ever happen?"

Bruce twitched; his body no longer seemed nonexistent. "Of course." From nothingness, he began to _see_ his dreams about them, now almost as real as Rachel. "I'd see them waving to me, taking me for walks, days in the park." The visions _seemed to darken_, wrapping themselves around him. "I wish there were more of them." The darkness _tightened_. "I'm afraid many have been lost forever."

In the darkness, his dreams _disappeared._

Rachel _backed off,_ as if hit by some blow. Her reply _was very quiet._ "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to reopen old wounds."

"It happens. But yes, I'm not dead. Wherever we are, I'm here with you."

"And let me guess, you don't want to leave."

Bruce did not reply; a dark tide of anguish was rising.

"You need to let go of me, Bruce, and go on with your life."

"I can't let go of you like that."

Suddenly she _smiled_ again. "No, you're not the one to let the dead pass from your life so easily."

Abruptly real anger flared within him. "Batman exists to serve the people of Gotham!"

She _shook _her head _sadly._ "Is the Batman worth the cost you've paid?"

He could not reply. _Yes. No. Maybe? _

Rachel _continued: _"Would you say it was worth the cost of my own life?"

Bruce suddenly felt like a lump of metal in a trash compactor. "Batman did not cause your death, Rachel."

"No, but did Bruce Wayne?"

And then he got it: she was reminding him that, to her, Batman and Bruce Wayne were two sides of the same coin. _At least, as long as I _choose_ for it to be so._

But to think of it was too painful. For the first time, Bruce turned away from her.

"I'm sorry," she _said_ from _behind._ "The last thing I should be doing is chiding you, when somehow you've conquered death… for me." He could hear, or perhaps _sense,_ the awe in her voice. As he turned to _face_ her, suddenly he _felt_ arms wrapped around himself—

—An orgy of sense became real: he could feel her, he could smell her, even taste her perfume. He hugged her, even though she wasn't really there—

—And then once again she was separate from him. Without knowing how he understood why: however Bruce was communing with Rachel, there were limits to how _real _it could be.

"Bruce, I don't know how much time we have together," she _said urgently,_ "so let's make the most of it."

There were a lot of things Bruce wanted to do to—with—Rachel right now, but the unreality of the situation limited their options. But there was one question he needed to know the answer to above all. "Did you ever really love me?"

Rachel _smiled. _"Of course I loved you—still love you. I said so, didn't I?"

Bruce definitely remembered, the one and only time she ever did: in the still-smoldering ruins of Wayne Manor, inches away from him, after their lips had parted.

…_the man I loved_, _the man who vanished, he never came back at all. But maybe he's still out there, somewhere. Maybe someday, when Gotham no longer needs Batman, I'll see him again…_

Recalling, it now seemed unsettlingly prescient. Yet despite the situation, Bruce could not help but _say wryly: _"You didn't say you love me just because I saved your life, right?"

Rachel _smiled,_ but it was not a _humorous_ smile—more _sad_. "I've always loved you, since we we began growing up together."

"Really?"

"Yes, really, Bruce, even after you hit me in the eye with that firetruck."

Bruce's mouth—he had a mouth now—fell open in astonishment. "You remembered that?"

"I deserved it, after throwing that ball at your face."

He didn't remember that. "Uh, okay…" he stammered, unsure of what to say next.

Rachel's smile _faded;_ her demeanor was now _serious. _"Love changes so much as we grow up, it hardly makes sense to call it the same thing, but we do. If kids can love each other even while fighting and playing, then we loved each other then."

A pause. "And later?"

"And later, it gets complicated."Again she _fell silent._

"Because of Batman?"

"Actually, before that." She _said nothing further._

Bruce was curious. "What do you mean?"

Now she suddenly looked _angry._ But then her face _softened. _"I'm sorry, it's just such a…well, the only way to explain is for me to show you."

"Show me?"

"Brace yourself." And before he could react—

* * *

—"_Rachel, look at me when I'm talking to you—"_

"—_don't touch me!" she flared, throwing his arm off her shoulder. But she turned around anyway to face her so-called 'father', Tanner Dawes, who was in jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt, a pipe in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. Her mother was off to the side, arms folded in front of her and head hanging, standing conspicuously silent._

_Rachel did not shout again, but her voice was as hard as iron. "It's over, don't you understand?"_

"_No, I don't understand, the two of you were getting along so well—"_

"—_that was senior prom, months ago. There's absolutely nothing going on between us now."_

_His face contorted with fury and frustration. "Well, you should get things started again!"_

_Rachel shrieked. "Mom!"_

_Her father jerked his head towards her mother. "Tell me I'm wrong, Anne! Tell her!"_

_Slowly her mother raised her head, a pained look in her eye. "Rachel, Bruce is such a nice boy—"_

_Obviously no support from that corner. "No he isn't," she said coldly, "he's screwed up, and if half of what I've heard he's done is true, he's a danger to himself and others!"_

"_But you can help him, remember? Just like we discussed?"_

_Rachel could barely keep herself from biting her tongue. "Bruce isn't the only person I want to help mentally." She sighed; there was no denying the truth. "Okay, yes, I like__—_liked_____—_Bruce very much, and studying psychology might be one way to help him. But it's not the only reason I want to study psych, and more to the point, Bruce and I are going our separate ways."

"_But why? I don't understand, what the hell did he do that was so bad? I mean, what, did he kill someone? You know I'd kill any bastard who was trouble to you, but Bruce is a stand-up guy, I know!"_

_You never met him, she thought angrily to herself. But she swore she'd never say anything about what she suspected he'd done to Clinton. "He's arrogant, stuck-up, a total snob, rubs his money in your face every chance he gets—"_

"—_Wait a minute, you said he was messed up because of what happened to his parents, now you're saying he's just a rich a-hole? You can live with that—hell, you'll be one of them too! He won't mind!"_

_Rachel cursed her father's sudden burst of insight; perhaps she should tell the truth? NO! In her most sere grownup tone of voice she could muster, she said: "If and when I fall in love and get married, it'll be to someone who is personally good and thinks first about the good of others." And even then, it'll be a long time from now!_

_Her father frowned—a most dangerous sign. "Alright, Rachel, you've just turned eighteen, so you're an adult now, and even though I haven't been there all the time—" _

—_Anytime—_

"—_as your father I'm going to lay it all out one last time." He took a deep breath, relit his pipe and took a few puffs, then chugged down a swig from the bottle._

_When her father began speaking, his voice was even more gravelly than before, but no less penetrating. "No one you'll ever meet will be a better choice for husband than Bruce Wayne, period end of story. Play your cards right, and you're set for life, and everyone that ever comes after you. You said he's messed up, well who isn't?" He pounded his chest and gave an ugly smile. "To be 100% brutally honest, he's out of your league—"_

"—_Bill!" her mother flared indignantly._

"—_but that doesn't matter, see, 'cause you got an in with him," he said, ignoring her mother's outburst and her own dirty look. "You two grew up together, you were the only girl he spent time with after his parents died. Don't tell me I don't know Bruce Wayne, I've done my research too. He don't have normal relations with any other girls his age, or younger or older."_

_If Rachel could give him a more disdainful look, she didn't know how. He continued: "Maybe he's a fruit. I doubt it, and assuming he isn't, my bet is, sooner or later, he'll welcome you with open arms. Believe it or not, I bet he associates you with happy times." Her father suddenly beamed. "See, who's the psychiatrist now?"_

_Now Rachel turned away, because she couldn't take anymore of his BS. He went on: "But when he goes off to Harvard or wherever, when his parents' friends start really introducing him to their daughters, let alone his classmates' parents, everyone on the board of Wayne Enterprises; hell, everyone on the East Coast who reads the society columns, you'll be out of luck. At best, you could be a second wife, but that'd mean someone else has taken him for half. It's now or never, Rachel. You gotta go for it."_

_She bounded over to him until they were almost nose-to-nose."Why don't I just go over to Wayne Manor wearing nothing but an overcoat, and flash him when he answers the door? How 'bout that, 'Dad'?"_

_He shrugged his shoulders, smirking. "Sounds like a plan to me."_

_ She almost spat in his face, which probably would've gotten her belted, but instead turned away and began walking out._

"_Rachel, wait," her mother suddenly said. Rachel stopped and turned around, arms folded in front of her, a cross expression on her face. "Your father and I don't always agree or get along," she began, glaring at her dad, "and while he put it crudely, he does want what's best for you. Of course it's your decision, no one's saying it isn't."_

"_And what if Bruce Wayne would not be best for me? Besides his money, he's just another guy."_

"_Is he going to beat you up? Have you killed?" her dad asked._

"_No." _

"_Just be open-minded, and keep in touch with him," her mother urged. "He's a good boy, a good man, no matter what you might have heard." She smiled gently, reassuringly. "I practically raised him like your brother. He has a wealthy background, but the money hasn't gone to his head." _

_She raised her hand before she could react. "How do I know? I watched him grow up, watched how his parents raised him. And I've heard from the other staff that still work at Wayne Manor. He was traumatized, how could he not, but what happened to his parents didn't damage him. You watch, he'll be a great man one day, a leader of the community and society, and in no small part it will be his reaction to the tragedy."_

_Her mother's words hit something inside Rachel, which made her want to flinch. But that moment of uncomfortableness then became one of sorrow. Oh how wrong you are, Mom, Rachel thought sadly. She so wanted what she said to be true, but what Bruce told her, and the rumors she'd heard, pointed to the existence of a dark stain of anger and hatred running down his soul, something that went so deep she wondered if anything could heal him._

_They had fallen silent, apparently exhausted by the umpteenth rehash of this argument. "I'll always love Bruce, he's one of my oldest and dearest friends," she lied (though not entirely). I promise to keep in touch with him in college, and we'll see how it goes from there."_

_Her parents looked at each other, then at her, her mother smiling, her father scowling._

"_Alright, dear."_

"_Promise me—I want to hear the result of every time you get together with him, okay?"_

"_Yes, Dad, I will."_

* * *

Bruce had retreated to a very quiet and distant place. Rachel _followed _him.

"You deserve the truth," she _said._

"That…was not what I expected," he said honestly. Once he was no longer a quiet preteen, but a strapping adolescent, female interest towards him had increased exponentially. For the vast majority of his erstwhile suitresses, their motives were so transparent he had no difficulty dismissing them. But to hear Rachel had also been pressured, by omission and commission, to go after him was an ugly realization. It was disarming, disconcerting, disquieting, dis-everything. And it led to midnight fears: _was it all an act? Did she ever really love me? Or just the promise of me?_

"There were times, like I said, I wanted to throw myself at you," Rachel _said,_ "and times where I wished you would just disappear forever." There were _tears_ in her voice, which _quavered. _"When you became the Batman, that pattern repeated itself a thousandfold." She _paused._ "I loved you, I despised you. Feared you. Pitied you. But I never envied you, because for all you've been blessed with materially, you've had so much taken away."_  
_

Her honesty was reassuring. He forced a smile. "Well I did disappear; you almost got your wish." As soon as he said those words he regretted their triviality.

Rachel _closed_ her eyes, as if reliving the memory she had shared with him. "My parents' issues—that's on them, and once I went to college I ignored it completely. You on the other hand…"

Bruce sighed. "…I shut you out, didn't want anything to do with you."

Rachel _nodded._ "Because you were plotting your revenge against Chill."

Bruce reminisced, about those long, dark years in college where he did the minimum to get buy, all the while thinking over and over again how he was going to kill Joe Chill; how Rachel had faded almost completely from sight; how carefully but completely he had built walls between himself and everyone else who might be close to him, even Alfred, so that there would be nothing to hold him back or cause him to hesitate when the time came…

"Like I said, 'love' defies definition. But here—" she _placed _her hand over her chest, "—there's always been love for you. Not _only_ you, mind you," she _said shyly._

Strangely, Bruce did not find himself agonizing over lost opportunities, even with the _truth_ Rachel gave her—because he knew the bald truth about himself and Rachel as well. _Should I say it? I should. _"I guess I've always 'loved' you that way too, Rachel. But I never…"

"Hmm?" she _hummed_.

_She knows. _Bracing himself, Bruce continued: "…I wasn't in _love_ with you until I returned to Gotham. Until…"

"…you became the Batman…"

"…and thought about giving it up…"

"…because I said that was what it would take to be with me…"

"…and that would be my reward for doing so." _There was an infinite silence…_

Rachel _broke_ it. "May I ask you something personal, Bruce?"

"Of course."

"Would you ever consider giving up being the Batman?"

"Of course, didn't I say I would?" _Must be an echo…_

She did not reply for some time. When she did, her voice was _hesitant and fearful. _"But then I understood you _need_ to be the Batman. I realized after we stopped Poison Ivy, you could have retired then on top, having saved everyone in Gotham twice in less than a year. But you didn't. There was always someone else to fight, some other criminality to stop. I couldn't deny it anymore; you _enjoy_ being the Batman."

Bruce phrased his answer carefully. "I admit, I…liked fighting crime… and criminals, but ultimately I wanted a normal life, too. And I never believed that I alone could stop all crime forever, I'm not that naïve." He considered. "I… just wanted to do enough… to get the citizens of Gotham to act on their own, to break the hold that fear and helplessness that decades of crime had suffocated Gotham with. And with Dent, I thought he would be the beginning of the end of the hold crime had. Harvey could have—could do it, I'm sure. And once that happened, I would have given up Batman."

"Even against the memory of your parents?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you finally at peace with what happened in the past?"

His voice chilled. "I am not Batman just to avenge my parents. I am Batman so that no one else need become Batman. So that no one else has to endure what I endure."

There was complete silence; no response from either of them for a long time. Finally: "Alright Bruce, I believe you now. But one more thing: what if I would not have been there after Batman was no longer needed?"

"If you ended up with Dent instead?" Rachel _nodded._

"Well, it's not like becoming Batman again would have changed your mind, so no effect," he said breezily. _Is she saying she was _really_ in love with Dent, and would have been with him no matter what happened with Batman? _It was a disturbing, impossible thought; he rejected it out of hand, but…

There was no avoiding it. "Rachel, are you saying you would have ended up with Harvey regardless?" He could not keep the urgency out of his voice.

"Yes." _Ouch!_ "Because I didn't believe you would ever give up being Batman. If you're honest with yourself, you shouldn't be surprised."

"Surprised, no." _Okay, this is a lie, it's a complete shock, even though in retrospect, it shouldn't be._ "Disappointed, yes." _If by disappointed you mean totally crushed and devastated. Maybe I should leave now…_

'_She was going to wait for me, Alfred,' he remembered saying. It was such a fragile, pathetic reed of hope, but somehow it was enough to give him strength to fight on, to battle and ultimately defeat the Joker. If she wasn't going to wait for me, was there any point to it all?  
_

Bruce felt a strong temptation to just give in to the darkness, to let himself fade into nothingness, so that all the pain would go away. But before he could do so, he suddenly saw grayness again. _Pain and pleasure, love and hate, hope and despair, all sum to nothing._ As much joy as he felt over being in Rachel's shade, he felt disbelief and anger-betrayal?-at the thought that Rachel had lied to him.

It was nothing, yet not anything. In that nothingness, Bruce found his only refuge. _In the end, what does it matter? Harvey and Rachel are both dead, never to return. Dead, because the Joker killed her, and…_

_The Joker…_ Bruce felt his comfortable nullity dissolve into an uncontrollable surge of anger and hatred; fury, disgust, rage. At first it was a welcome distraction from this unpleasant revelation, but in the end it became all-consuming. _Nothing would be enough; even if I killed him, it would never heal me of the pain he caused by killing Rachel, and by destroying Dent._ He shuddered. _If I kill the Joker in the future, like I almost did when our minds were linked, will I turn into a Two-Face myself?_

Against the Joker, assuming he didn't die or remain in prison forever, the temptation to kill him would always be there. _And thus, I can never truly defeat the Joker as long as he lives—and even if he dies, will he just become my new Joe Chill? Will I rage against his escape from my hands by taking it out on others, even the innocent?  
_

Unfortunately, the Joker's shadow reached across death, even here. _There are things I have to know, if I'm ever to have peace._ "If I may ask, can you tell me what happened… at the end?" He instantly regretted saying that the moment the words slipped by his tongue, but of course it was too late.

"I… I'm not sure I can—or am ready—"

"Alright." _No it's not alright! _"No, I have to know – were you pregnant?"

"Bruce!"

He was near tears now. "I'm sorry, it's just that… the Joker taunted me, saying you were… molested, that you told him—that you died carrying Harvey's child, I couldn't bear knowing—"

"—Shh, it's okay, Bruce," Rachel _said soothingly._ "No to both."

"Thank God."

All of a sudden, Rachel looked _stunned,_ as if the reality that she had died had just occurred to her. "I hardly even remember how I got there. Then the last thing I remember was hearing Harvey screaming my name…" She _floated_ away, _ignoring_ Bruce, _looking_ very much like a ghost. Suddenly other memories flooded into him, unbidden, he could not block them out—

…_Harvey was screaming her name, his cries becoming fainter. "Harvey?" she asked tentatively. But he could no longer respond rationally as panic consumed him. "Okay." She closed her eyes and a perfect calm filled her—there was no longer any point in struggling against what would happen next. "Harvey, it's okay," she said to him and herself, for him and herself. With the knowledge__—_hope?_—_that Bruce had got to Harvey in time, she said soothingly, "It's alright, listen." Her will faltered for a second. Quivering, she continued: "Some—"

_ …Bruce and Rachel felt a crushing searing heat, and then nothing__…_

Bruce wept, screaming into the nothingness at the horror of fate, and the curse of choice.

"—I don't remember what I was going to say," Rachel _whispered._ Then she _appeared_ before Bruce, _terrified._ "Bruce! Harvey! What happened to Harvey? Did he make it? I have to know! Tell me! TELL ME!"

Her scream broke his grief, and filled him with fear. _I can't tell her, I can't, I just can't—_

"Bruce, tell me; he's alive, right? He'd be here with me if he was dead, right? So he must be alive!"

_Even in death, ever the lawyer, trying to think things out logically._ Bruce thought morosely. Her logic made no sense, but then again this whole situation was clearly completely beyond rationality.

_She deserves the truth. _"Rachel," Bruce said gently, "Harvey is dead."

Rachel _stared uncomprehendingly_ at Bruce for a second, then _broke down and wept_, a _horrible choking cry _that tore his heart to shreds. But her breakdown was nothing compared to the grief he was _feeling_. Finally, she _stammered: _"You… you didn't get him out in time? I thought you got there first?"

For an eternity Bruce was silent, but Rachel could _wait_ beyond that. Speaking the words he dared not repeat to anyone, he said: "Rachel, I killed Harvey. He died at my hands."

_How? Why?_

For an even longer eternity he tried not to answer - ever since he realized he was communing with Rachel, he had held the memory of what had happened after Rachel's death with Harvey hidden deep inside, unwilling to sully her memories of him.

_This will be like killing her a second time, I can't do it—_but Bruce realized that to lie to Rachel, even in death, would make a mockery of his claim that he ever loved her.

Dreading what was to come, Bruce held out his hand. "Rachel, I won't tell you—I'll show you. Take my hand, and you will see… the truth."

She _took _his hand. And his eternal nightmare came to life once more…

* * *

_…Rachel gasped in horror as the flames reached up and consumed half of Harvey, his agonizing screams exceeding even that which she heard in the last moments of her own life. She saw Bruce, clothed as the Batman, stood among the ruins, silent in inchoate rage and grief…_

_ …the visions then became distorted, chaotic. She recalled the fragments of what had happened in Gotham General Hospital that Bruce had managed to gleam from the minds of Harvey and the Joker in the beyond. Rachel again gasped at the hideous injuries Harvey had sustained: the left-half of his head reduced to a charred obscenity, the exposed eyeball absurdly white against the red-brown crusted and burnt flesh. Standing over him was the Joker, incongruously clad as a nurse. Their words were lost in a swirl of fury and revelry, anger and joy. But they could both see clearly the Joker putting a pistol in Harvey's hand, and Harvey taking out a coin—the one Harvey gave to her—flipping it, staring at it, then incomprehensibly lowering the pistol._

_ …they observed Harvey gunning down Detective Wuertz after an unlucky flip of the coin; Harvey shooting Maroni's driver, causing the limo to crash; clubbing Ramirez unconscious and leaving her to a grim and lethal fate; and finally, to the burnt-out warehouse where she had died. Rachel silently saw Harvey standing over a supine Lieutenant Gordon, waving his pistol at his wife and two children; saw Harvey tell Gordon and Batman that he would let his coin decide whether or not Gordon's son would live…_

_ …she saw and felt Bruce crumple at the impact of Harvey's gunshot; exhausted, his only goal to save the life of an innocent and not fail again; she felt the impact as Batman rammed into Harvey and threw him to the ground below. She looked down at Harvey, his body still in death, and felt as Bruce took Harvey's face and gently turned it to the left, so that his intact face—the hint of a smile still on it—stared peacefully up. And she heard Bruce tell Gordon that he would take the blame for all of Harvey's murders, to protect the image of Dent so that his legacy could still be salvaged, at the cost of Batman's…_

* * *

The memories faded to nothing. Now things were different: it was as if they were one being. Bruce could no longer tell where Rachel ended and he began.

And so he experienced the full measure of Rachel's grief and horror: "He… he agreed to become… he killed all those people on a whim… he let the Joker go… he would have killed Gordon's son… and he did it, did it all because… because of me? Because of me!"

It was that last thing that horrified Rachel the most: _Harvey became a murderer just because I died! Everything I knew about him, everything I believed, was all a lie! I loved him, I told him I would be his forever—and the first thing that happens after I'm gone is he becomes as bad as the Joker! Why, for all that is holy, why God why?_

Bruce had no answer for her; all he could do was try to comfort her. But it was more than grief that afflicted Rachel; horror and disgust filled her. He knew how easily that could translate to hate, so he no longer remained passive. "Rachel, don't hate Harvey for what he did, he lost you—"

"—and that make it right?" Rachel was shrieking; Bruce could both hear and feel himself/herself screaming her epithets, could see/feel her panicked fury and feel/see his pained embarrassment. "It's okay for men to become psychotic killers just because their women die? Is that how fragile we are?"

_Madness is like gravity—all it takes is a little push. _It was the wrong thing to remember. "—You see! You agree with him! You're just like the Joker! Oh God, all those people dead because of me! Why, why couldn't I see that in Harvey? Why couldn't I have died a year ago, why did you save me?"

"Because I loved you—"

"—and you killed people after I died too! You killed Harvey, you killed him to save that child, but you're just like him too! Is this what you men really believe? You're all just like the Joker!" She dug into his memories. "See! 'I'm not a monster, just ahead of the curve.' He told you, and you didn't deny it. Tell me you agree with him, that you're just like the Joker! Tell me, don't lie to me anymore Bruce, tell me!"

If there was a worse thing than watching Rachel and Harvey die, it was to know that he would have no absolution from their shades. _Rachel's right—fight violence with violence, and people get hurt. _However necessary, however appropriate, it was inescapable. _And I did kill Harvey. So much for my one rule…_

Rachel's horror and grief had completely engulfed her and him; he could no longer see or feel her. Instead, he just felt the ineffable chaos of her emotions engulf his entire reality. Within that formless craze, he saw fragments; brief images of Rachel and Harvey, happy together, loving each other-images which were then swept away by his own memories of Harvey's atrocities.

Bruce had no idea how to calm her, to explain, until he suddenly realized that there was still one last thing he had not yet revealed to Rachel. Something that in the real world she would never believe if he had said it, but here, beyond life and death, where they were somehow one, she might be convinced.

He tried to start from the beginning. "Rachel, you're right, Harvey may have done what he did because of your death, because he fell for the Joker's lies. And I did kill him, intent or not, he died at my hands. But the Joker has been brought to justice. He won't hurt anyone else any more."

"Did you kill him?" Rachel asked sarcastically. "If so, good job!"

"I did not kill him, I captured him alive, just as he was about to kill hundreds."

He felt Rachel's stunned disbelief. "You… captured the Joker? Even though he killed me?"

Bruce was inconsolable. "I killed you—I tried to save you, and instead I saved Harvey. The Joker's final trick."

Rachel's anger and grief had finally subsided; now he felt her curiosity. "What happened?"

One last time he showed her, sharing his deepest truth, his most closely guarded secret…

* * *

…_Rachel relived Bruce's horror as he realized the Joker's 'guards' were actually the hostages, and that an unspeakable tragedy would occur if the police acted according to plan. And suddenly an ineffable fury filled Batman as he began fighting _against_ the police, doing everything he could to put the police out of action without killing them__. It was such a peculiar, paradoxical sight: Batman using violence for nonviolence…_

___…_She allowed herself to sink through Batman's grim determination, his single-minded focus, his iron will. She sank through his anger, through his pain, until at last she could see and feel the deepest force that animated his actions: compassion_…_

___…_Despite the strength of Batman—Bruce's—anger and resolve, the ultimate motivating force of Batman/Bruce Wayne was a deep hidden compassion, almost childlike in its simplicity and purity, but stronger than anything_ imaginable. _It created within him an unconscious desire to protect all life—a drive that was all that managed to keep his rage at his parents' fate all those years ago in check. It was that same determination that stayed his hand back in Ras al-Gul's lair when he refused to execute a criminal, and the same drive that prompted him to save the Joker from plummeting to his death below, even though he raged at that same Joker for all his crimes…

_ …and it was that willingness to sacrifice everything for the greater good that led him to take on the crimes of Harvey Dent, the man she loved and had thought was the superior character to Bruce's brand of vigilantism…_

…_and it was that inner goodness, hidden deep within Bruce Wayne, that Rachel had unwittingly sensed, so many years ago, and which ever since had evoked such a powerful feeling of friendship, compassion, and love for Bruce. That it not only continued to exist, but had become stronger, more powerful, as Bruce took on the mantle of the Batman, was the greatest, most incomprehensible, yet most joyous revelation of all…_

* * *

Bruce opened his eyes. They were no longer cloaked in grey emptiness; instead, Rachel and himself were standing at Rachel's gravesite. The scene was unchanged from his memory of a few months ago: cloudy skies, with a damp vibe to the air that hinted of coming rain. His perceptions were now completely normal, and Rachel stood before him, dressed as she was the last time he saw her. Smells, sounds, tastes, everything seemed real, alive. _She looks great—except for the fact that she's dead._

Rachel slowly bent down over her tombstone, not saying a word. She then rose to face him, tears rolling down her cheek. Without speaking she embraced him, and Bruce could feel the full warmth and feeling of her embrace.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered in his ear.

Bruce's smile was equal parts incredulous and understanding. "What could you possibly need to apologize for?"

"For doubting you. For not trusting you." She broke off the embrace and smiled. "It really is true what they say, you really don't know anyone."

Bruce could somehow sense her awe at...what she saw within him. It was disconcerting; he tried to deflect it. "Well, I don't know about me. I've always known you were beyond reproach, that you would do the right thing. The men in your life may have always let you down, but we could always have faith in you."

She shook her head. "I'm not a saint, Bruce, only human. And I hope you don't mind that I chose Harvey over you, even though I didn't know anything about him either."

For now, it made no difference in the world. "No point in getting angry at the dead."

"Glad to see your sense of humor survives."

His smile became boundless. "I guess I'm just getting the hang of this afterlife stuff."

"Obviously so, which is why we must now say good-bye for good." She took a step back.

Now his smile vanished. "I was afraid you would say that."

Rachel turned to look out to the horizon. "But it feels right now, I think."

Bruce didn't understand. "How so?"

She looked up to the sky, apparently lost in thought. "I know how much you've battled fear, all your life. The greatest reason for fear is the unknown. From where you are, the greatest unknown must be what lies beyond death, the secrets those who have passed on take with them to the grave—and beyond."

He tried to summon humor to disarm his growing sadness. "Well then you should be fearless, since you've conquered death."

Rachel's smile was infinitely kind. "No, not fearless, Bruce. I still don't know what lies ahead. But I do know that the thing I fear most is what I must leave behind." She fell silent. "There are so many things I wish I could know about the living world, the world I will leave behind, that it hurts the heart."

Bruce did not reply. "You've told me some terrible truths, Bruce, things I haven't fully accepted, and may never be able to accept. But the one beautiful truth you've given me, the one precious gift I will take with me ahead into eternity, is you."

Her words stunned him. "Me?"

She reached out and touched her cheek. _Oh what I would trade to feel that again once more. _"You—you and your essential goodness. I think it's true when they say a person's character is only revealed in tough times. Harvey, bless his soul, failed that test." She paused, lips quivering. "You passed with flying colors. All my doubts and fears about you, since that terrible day so many years ago, are gone."

Words failed him. "I'm honored," he managed to say.

"And because of that, I want you to know that I trust you to be the Batman. Although I hope I'm wrong, my fear is Gotham and the world still needs Batman a little longer."

He sighed. "It might be a lot longer than that."

"If that's the case, then those who would break the law to uphold it must be special people indeed. No one else may trust you with that task, but I do. If you ever wonder, ever doubt, know that I would tell you to be the Dark Knight as long as you feel it's right."

He nodded. "I can think of no higher praise."

"That being said, dear Bruce, also remember that you don't have to be Batman anymore—out of any sense of duty to your parents, to Harvey, or to me. You've done so much good, you should not feel guilty if, in the future, you finally choose to walk away."

Bruce closed his eyes. "A lot of bad has happened as a result of my actions, too. I might have to make up for that."

"Well, if you feel the balance is no longer in favor of right, then by all means stop. But don't deny yourself the blessings of life you have given so many by your heroism." She smiled sadly. "That includes love, Bruce."

Bruce did not cry, but his voice was shaky. "You'll always leave a hole in my heart—especially now."

"Oh Bruce, I don't want to cause you any more pain! Please don't dwell in the past. Remember it, but don't dwell in it. Prepare for the future, and live for the present."

"Of course." He paused. "And on that note…"

They embraced one final time. "One day we'll meet again. I just hope it's a very long time from now."

"Me too. Good-bye Rachel Dawes. I'll always love you."

"Bye Bruce Wayne. I'll always love you too." They kissed. It lasted forever, or for thirty seconds. For Bruce, it was exactly the same.

As they parted, Rachel smiled, waved good-bye one more time, then walked away from the tombstone, off into the distance. Bruce watched her stroll off until, finally, her figure diminished and then disappeared into the milky sky.

* * *

Bruce Wayne slowly sat up in his bed. It was far past midnight, and to his left Alfred and Lucius were standing quietly, a grave look of concern on their faces.

Smiling, he slowly turned to the left and put his feet into the slippers at the foot of his bed. "Evening gentlemen," he said as he stood up.

"Is everything alright, Master Wayne?"

"Everything's fine," Bruce replied.

A pause. "Is it over?" Lucius asked.

Bruce thought about it. "Yes, Lucius. It's over."


	8. Chapter 8

epilogue  
grief

* * *

The snow that had begun falling that late December afternoon continued on without stopping into the night, bathing the entire Gotham metropolitan area in a blinding white cover, one that erased all blemishes and discolorations that signified the myriads of problems afflicting the great city. Even the darkest flows of crime bowed to the cold indifferent might of nature, burrowing deep underground or soaring high above to escape the frigid stillness. The great mass of humanity that struggled daily to make a living was more active, perhaps unconsciously reacting to the drop in danger. More likely, they had no alternative but to continue making their living.

Far from the pulsating core, a solitary Bruce Wayne slowly made his way through the mounds of snow to Rachel Dawes' gravesite. It had not been easy to find as the weather had piled thick powdery snow atop the entire burial ground, but Bruce's unfailing memory led him straight and true.

Bruce slowly laid the bouquet of roses on her plot, right down the middle of the tombstone. He then closed his eyes for a moment of silence, saying nothing. Opening them after a few minutes, he stared intently at the headstone, blinking as snow dribbled down from his eyelashes.

From beyond himself, he took in the scene. There he was, a solitary silent figure standing alone, by a single plot in an empty cemetery on a snowy winter night. Nothing out of the ordinary.

_Nothing out of the ordinary._ Bruce chuckled grimly at that observation. _Nothing further from the truth._

For some mysterious reason, the stash of Bruce's white powder that had fueled his extraordinary extrasensory perceptions over the past few months ceased to have any effect. If he had really been melding minds with his foes and communing with the dead, clearly it would happen no longer. _Was this all an elaborate scheme by a perhaps-still-alive Ra's? A means of temptation—join me, and be able to rejoin the dead, or suffer a mortal life and die. Or perhaps Rachel herself—or her benefactor in the beyond—making an effort to salve his damaged conscience?_ Or perhaps like Lucius still insisted, it was all in the end a complete and utter hallucination, with no ultimate meaning at all.

The answer? _Yes._ Whatever had happened, _had _happened, Bruce was sure, and the only question was its reality. _But reality is what we make of it, so the actual question isn't whether what I experienced was real or not. The real question is: what to make of it all?_

_Not so easy to answer._ Assuming for the moment it _was_ all real, Bruce first and foremost had a rueful regret that his 'experiences', mainly centered around his adversaries and foes, and not the people he cared for who were no longer here. _What does that say about me? Nothing good, I'm sure._

Then again, as the expression went, 'Franco is still dead.' The interminable hang-ups with the Joker's trials were continuing unabated, and Poison Ivy was still on the loose, but not otherwise causing any trouble. There was no sign of any renewed activity by the League of Shadows—not that they would be likely to leave traces—and as far as he knew, Ra's and Two-Face were indeed still dead.

_And Rachel too._ Now, though he still felt pangs of grief, it was becoming more a dull pain—real, but manageable, and not crippling. He could now admit both to others and himself that, however sad it was, finally, that chapter of his life with Rachel had come to an end. _Things pass in and out of life, _someone once told him. _Choose wisely what you let go of, and what you decide to retain._

That it was Ra's who told him that, in the end, was okay.

Staring down at Rachel's headstone, he paradoxically did not dwell on the past; instead, he was inexorably, unwillingly, drawn into questions about his future. The Batman was still officially Fugitive #1 in Gotham and the nation, with a $10 million bounty on his head. The police still had not made any effective pursuit—_thank you, Commissioner Gordon—_but luck could always run out. The question remained, as always: what to do next?

_And how to do it—as Bruce Wayne, or as the Batman?_ Both had their advantages and drawbacks. But the problem was that the Batman still remained a damaged tool, a shattered image, one he did not have a grasp as to correcting. _Should I just give it up? _Always the temptation…

_Rachel had faith in me to do the right thing. Unfortunately, that doesn't make _choosing_ the right thing any easier, only provides reassurance after the decision is made. _Aside from forever losing her as a potential partner in life, it was her measured judgment in matters both legal and non that he missed most about her.

Finding someone else was high on the list of priorities, but also showing little progress made, for a very simple reason: _unless they too know of me as the Batman, they could never be fully part of my dual life. And if they do know me, do I risk condemning them to the same fate that befell Rachel? _An awful dilemma, which the more he thought about it, the more he was tempted not to engage for the moment.

He fell silent as he crouched down low, to better read the words inscribed on the tombstone, snowflakes his only company. _Rachel, Harvey, my parents, they are my past. _It was an unpleasant truth to realize, but it was the truth. _'Remember the past, do the present, plan the future', or something like that. _These were thoughts he would never commit to paper, so instead he would have to make do with memory. _I think that's right._

His parents' fate had pushed him, ultimately, to become the Dark Knight. Had they lived, Rachel and Harvey, for reasons personal and professional, would have pulled him away._ So how do I approach the future? As Bruce Wayne? As Batman? As both? Or neither?  
_

The silent night gave no answer. He now felt a brief moment of bitterness, once again feeling the old rage against God, Fate, Destiny or Luck-whoever or whatever, if anything, was in charge of things, and left him so unhappy. In his past, he would explode violently whenever these feelings would come over him. Now...

_ ...Now, I'm older, maybe not wiser, but definitely no longer able to use youth as an excuse. Whatever I'm feeling, it means nothing unless it is harnessed for purposeful action. _

He felt a little better, but only a little. _What that action is to be, I still don't know. _Lost in thought, Bruce was brought back by the distant wail of sirens. _Even on a peaceful night like tonight, the shadows still fall._

Anger and calm had cancelled each other out, leaving Bruce with a cold empty feeling in his stomach. The old pain and grief began to creep back in_—I've lost so much! _But as despair threatened to engulf him, from someplace deep within him warm words bubbled forth like a brook, comforting his soul even as the cold winds chilled his body. _'I want you to know that I trust you to be the Batman._ _Remember, Bruce, don't be guilty about the past. You can always choose to walk away.' _

_Rachel Dawes. _What was she trying to say? Was he to follow one or the other? Could he follow both? The paradox frustrated him, and then he realized that was okay. _Because good advice doesn't soothe, it provokes. Goads one into action._

"But I still don't know what to do," he complained softly to himself. _Actually, that's not true. I must move on as Bruce Wayne _and_ as the Batman. Just without Harvey and Rachel. _It would be a lonelier journey without the two people he had met since Alfred that he had cared most for, but its rewards would be no less beautiful: the preservation of infinitely precious lives in the here and now, whom the forces of Darkness threatened to take away.

_Saving others will have to be its own reward, because right now I have nothing. _Bruce winced at that bitter truth. _And I must go forward using both sides of my coin, without worrying which side it ends up on in the end. _

For many, such an intangible prize would be poor recompense for the herculean burden Bruce was about to take on again. But from his perspective, it would be the greatest blessing of all._ Batman began, and one day He will end. However that happens, Rachel, I promise to live up to your faith in me.  
_

With a final pat of the gravestone, Bruce stood up. "Bye, Rachel," he said with a sad smile. "Thanks for everything, and good luck on your next adventure. Wish me luck on mine." Some snow had melted and became water streaming down his face; he brushed it aside, sniffing.

Without looking back, Bruce walked back to his nondescript car that had brought him here. _The past is past. It's time for Us to get back to work._

**The End**


	9. Chapter 9

**Afterthoughts**

* * *

First, thank you everyone for your patience in seeing this story through to the end. It's been a long wait, and I've let many of you down. I can't make any excuse, so instead I tried to make it up the best way I can: by writing the best end to Rachel Dawes as possible, and finishing it so you would have no further doubt about it.

As you all know by now, I love the character of Rachel Dawes, even if she is not original to the Batman comic canon. Not just because she is Bruce's love interest in the first two Nolan films, but also because she represents something interesting: the promise and possibility of a normal life for Bruce Wayne. As a comic story, Batman goes on and on, but a more realistic take on the character, as the Nolan movies are, must also include a realistic notion of how Bruce Wayne/The Batman's story will end ('_The Dark Knight Returns'_ is an end, of course, but not _the _end). Indeed, the end is the most important part of a story, and I think the next and final movie in Nolan's trilogy, will come up with an answer. Bruce could die, which would end the story, but that's not likely or satisfying. He could be forced to relinquish the Batman due to injury, lack of resources, or getting uncovered by the police, but that would not be interesting either. The most interesting ending to a Batman saga would be that he _chooses_ to end, either because his mission is complete, he bequeaths it to a new generation of Batman, or because he wants a normal life. I have no idea, but my guess is _The Dark Knight Rises_ will end with a choice of Batman to end it on his terms.

I wrote this story for selfish reasons: because Bruce got no real closure for Rachel's death in _The Dark Knight,_ I wanted them to share a final moment together. Of course, that's really difficult when you're dead! So I had to abandon realism and go fantastic, which Ra's comic background allows you to do, and I stretched things even further. Along the way, it was definitely fun to get into the heads of the Joker, Two-Face, and Ivy. As is my custom, I want to share some thoughts of each chapter in this Author's Commentary section.

Chapter 1 – Grief

As you can tell, the chapters are named for the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. And to my benefit, it worked out very well that Batman's relationships with Ra's, the Joker, Poison Ivy, and Two-Face mirror very well the notions of denial (Ra's lecturing Bruce to stop being in denial of the truth), Joker (Bruce's anger at Joker nearly causing him to snap), Ivy (offering herself in place of Rachel to further her schemes), and Two-Face (what could be more depressing than being stuck flipping a coin forever?). Seeing Rachel again, of course, gives Bruce the opportunity to accept and move on.

There is almost nothing about Rachel's background in the movies, and the books only offer a bit more, so I invented stuff about her background: her Catholic background, that her parents were working class and divorced, that she wanted to be a psychiatrist originally (in no small part to help Bruce, a la Leslie Tompkins). There is foreshadowing of the side stories of Clinton Polawski and Tanner Dawes. Of course, there is no real hint of the fantastical trip ahead!

Chapter 2 – Denial

Bruce tries to be with a woman in order to maintain cover, but obviously he is still broken up inside—at least, I made it so. There's no real time for Bruce to do any grieving in _The Dark Knight,_ and my guess is there will be very little if any grieving _The Dark Knight Returns,_ so I have him work out the issues here.

When he decides not to go out as Batman, I wanted to write it so that, just for a moment, Bruce realizes the absurdity of what he's doing: dressing as a bat and trying to fight all of crime as a one-man vigilante. It makes sense that right after _The Dark Knight_ ends, Bruce should still be laying low.

The journal entries are flashbacks of the past between Bruce and Rachel I have invented for the story. The writing as Bruce Wayne starts out as very laconic and direct, reflecting his inexperience at self-expression in written words, and the distance of the memories involved. As the memories he writes about become more recent, the description becomes more detailed and sophisticated. Also, I briefly describe the very-real issue of security that Batman would have to deal with to keep his identity secret, and do a bit of retconning to explain a plot hole from the second movie – do you really think the Chinese wouldn't connect the dots between Fox's phone and Batman breaking in? ;)

And finally, the introduction to the mysterious chemical that allows Bruce to communicate mentally with Ra's, and later with the Joker and Ivy (who are alive), and Two-Face and Rachel (who are dead). There is no rational explanation, so don't look for one! :)

More seriously, I love writing Ra's cutting Bruce down to size. It doesn't take much dispassionate analysis (and selective use of the truth) to really make Batman look bad for his actions in TDK, but Bruce is not without a good response of his own.

**Edit: the mysterious woman is intended to be Talia al-Gul.**

Chapter 3 – Anger

It's very important for the Joker to be, at some level, beyond the ability of Batman to comprehend. Batman can and does beat him down regularly, yes, but what makes Joker such a foe for Batman is that he is Batman's opposite, and that Batman cannot fully understand what makes him tick. It gives Joker an edge in his battles, and makes him one of the few enemies that Batman can and should actually fear. Obviously to some degree his embrace of chaos is contrived, as only a master planner could pull off what Joker did in TDK, but his chaotic unpredictability, and his wish that everyone be like him and live by no rules whatsoever, makes him a great villain, and antimatter to someone like Batman.

Unlike the other chapters, this mental conversation is from the Joker's point of view. We don't get much details of what he's thinking versus what he's experiencing at the moment – he is not a guy wallowing in introspection (Batman probably isn't either, but the whole point of this story is introspection, so liberties must be taken). Just as Batman cannot fully understand the Joker, the Joker cannot fully understand Batman—but it is scary how close he hits to home.

Batman/Bruce wants to know 'why' (the Joker did what he did in TDK); the Joker honestly answers why not (because he could, and wanted to). It's an answer guaranteed to piss Batman off, but it's the truth, and no amount of beatdowns Batman puts on the Joker can get him the answer he wants. And he _really_ knows how to get under Batman's skin, knowing that he has feelings for Rachel, by prodding and stoking Batman's worst fears about Rachel's death and what might have happened before, and that she might have been pregnant too (imagine if Rachel actually had been pregnant in TDK. How sick and dark her death would have been, mwahahaha… Oh well). Of course, Batman wasn't actually there, it was all in (the Joker's) head.

Chapters 4 and 5 – Bargaining (2 parts)

For length and dramatic reasons I had to break up this chapter into 2. As some may know, the end of Chapter 4 was posted as an upcoming preview of this story long ago in _Batman: Green Dawn,_ my Poison Ivy origin fanfic in the Batman Begins universe. The idea of this story at first was a short meditation by Bruce on what Rachel meant to him, then I expanded it to where he would actually communicate with Rachel in the beyond. That allowed me to put Batman in communication with others as well, and because I had so much fun creating my own Poison Ivy, I decided to bring her back here.

There's a long sidestory about Bruce's high school years. I wasn't entirely sure if him starting to beat up on people he suspected of crime was entirely convincing, although it's taken from _Batman: Year One._ The Bruce Wayne at the beginning of _Batman Begins_ does not give off the vibe of a prototype vigilante. I use it as a way of him acting out his aggressive feelings. Strictly speaking, I also don't get the sense from BB that Rachel and Bruce are longtime friends through adolescence; it seems from their conversation in the kitchen that this is the first time they're seeing each other in a while, which I suggest as well, although I do have them interacting some over the years. The final confrontation, where Bruce suspects Rachel wants to be a psychiatrist in order to treat him, is foreshadowing to Chapter 7, where we get the other side of what might be pressuring Rachel to pursue Bruce. As the writing suggests, Bruce is now fully able to write what he feels, and the details are much more vivid.

For Poison Ivy in this story, I finally gave her her standard comic-book power I conspicuously denied her in _Green Dawn:_ the ability to create superpowered plants and control them. Took me a while to think up a realistic sounding solution, but it wasn't that hard. For those who haven't read _Green Dawn, _spoilers below…

* * *

…Due to the way Batman defeated Ivy, she lost her memory of Bruce revealing himself as Batman in order to trick Ivy into kissing him, while his lips carried an Ivy-specific poison she could not resist. So while she has positive feelings for Bruce Wayne (when Bruce tried to infiltrate Green Dawn in Ivy's nightclub as himself, and Ivy used a mind-controlled Bruce to advance her goals), she hates Batman, who she obviously remembers defeating her.

* * *

Being very smart, and completely amoral, she deduces that Bruce was in love with Rachel, and offers to be his woman in exchange for financial support for her newest ecoterrorist plot. When she inadvertently ingests the chemical and becomes mentally linked with Bruce, you see the parallels in their lives growing up. But in the end, no matter how beautiful Pamela Isley is, who she is on the inside is truly ugly, and Bruce, with Rachel on his mind, sees that and overcomes Ivy's attempts to bewitch him again.

At the end of Chapter 5 Bruce finally makes the deduction that this mysterious chemical from Ra's might enable him to 'séance' with Rachel. There's no real evidence that it would, but Bruce does the unusual for himself and takes a leap of fate. But oh what a surprise he gets in Chapter 6 when he tries to!

Chapter 6 – Depression

This is meant to be the most surreal, atemporal chapter of all. I cut back on the sheer number of times things loop over and over again, but that repetition matters to establish the particular hellish version of purgatory that Harvey/Two-Face is trapped in; he will never move beyond death, but rehash his search for Justice in the standoff over Gordon's son for all eternity.

Bruce gets a vision of things Harvey sees, some from the movie, some from missing scenes in the movie, others from before the movie. We first see Rachel and Harvey's first time meeting together; what happened to Sgt. Ramirez after Two-Face knocks her out (very ugly); an intimate moment between Harvey and Rachel before he runs for D.A. We see the chilling view of Justice Harvey has as Two-Face, and the hot and cold dual persona of Two-Face, where Dent is passionate and angry about his fate, while Two-Face is completely calm and controlled, yet utterly enslaved to randomness.

In the final dialogue between Batman/Bruce Wayne and Dent/Two-Face, the references to Batman and Bruce, and Dent and Two-Face constantly flip, one after the other. I might have made some mistakes, but they are constantly turning from one to the other, like a spinning coin.

Finally, at the end, Bruce is seemingly trapped forever in a terrifying alternate version of events where Two-Face shoots Gordon son instead of Batman.

Chapter 7 – Acceptance

At last, the heart of the story. Part of the delay was in setting this up right, but the basic elements I wanted to accomplish were simple: for Rachel to muse about the reality (or not) of her situation and for both of them to get answers to the question they most have about each other; for Rachel to learn what happened in TDK and how she would have reacted to Harvey's fall, for Rachel to get a sense of the deep, contradictory veins running through Bruce; and finally, closure for both of them as Bruce returns to real life and Rachel moves on, with Rachel both giving him the permission he secretly wants from her to continue to be Batman, and giving him the reassurance that it is okay for him not to be Batman anymore as well.

The unusual italicizing is an attempt to capture in language the indescribable. I will put it this way: if you close your eyes and try to picture, say, an image of your mother from last week, what do you see? In my case, my eyes are closed, so it's pitch black. I _imagine_ seeing her, and while it's still blackness in front of me, it's as if just beyond the blackness I can see a full color picture of her. That is what Bruce is envisioning when Rachel tries to reach out to him, which is why verbs and adjectives are italicized – it represents his mental picture, with the difference that it's not (perhaps) a dream, but an apparent conversation.

The story with Rachel and her parents is something I imagined could have happened: given Rachel's background, it's possible her father and/or her mother would want and deliberately pressure her to hook up with Bruce Wayne, using (exploiting) their personal history together. It adds a little spice to Rachel's character, as well as provide some poignant foreshadowing of future events.

The biggest issue about this chapter I had was if and how Rachel would tell Bruce she would have chosen Harvey over him. If I wrote it that she doesn't tell him, it makes her look bad and raises the issue of whether it's even real or not (for the record, Chapter 7 is intended as real). If she does tell him, how to introduce it, and how to square it with the fact that Harvey's actions make Rachel's look really bad? I honestly sort of sideswipe the issue by having them briefly wrestle with it, then deal with the Joker (love that Joker!). Of course, it is also academic since they're both dead!

It does matter, however, because the one thing in TDK we see of Bruce dealing with his grief is his holding on to the hope that if he gave up being Batman, Rachel would come back to him. I don't know how the third movie will address it, and if there's no vision or flashback of Rachel in it (as I suspect), then really it shouldn't be made a big issue, but I would also hate to see Rachel's hard but arguably true words in that note never be heard by Bruce. I did not include it a discussion of it here, because it would have been a long detour. But with Anne Hathaway (and perhaps others) in _The Dark Knight Rises,_ Bruce will not be without female companionship, I'm sure.

It's an impossible hypothetical, of course, but I can easily imagine Rachel's utter shock, horror and devastation if she were to know what Harvey would do as a result of her death. It's a huge looming question over the movie, because in large part Rachel turns away from Bruce because she fears he will do something like what Harvey does do: give in to his violent urges. It's much worse in Harvey's case, because he is built up to be the hero. I think the idea of good men turning homicidal by the death of the women they love (Anakin Skywalker in _Star Wars_) is one of those irresistible movie cliches, but is really condescending and disgusting when thought about in reality. Really, Harvey, you love Rachel deeply, so you decide to act completely contrary to her in memory of her death?

The contrast between Harvey and Bruce's reactions to Rachel's death is why one of the most moving parts of TDK to me, which I inadequately try to portray here, is when Batman is taking out all the SWAT police members without harming them. It's such a clear example of the paradox of Batman, violence in the service of nonviolence. Even though he conspicuously fails to live up to his one rule in both movies (Ra's and Two-Face), it's almost reassuring to watch Batman in action in this scene and even when he saves the Joker's life, because it is evidence of the ultimate goodness within Bruce, which is hidden deep beneath his costume and violent actions. His actions address Rachel's concerns about Bruce needing Batman as a source of release for his violence within. That he is still in control of himself proves as true that Bruce meant it when he said he could give up Batman to be with Rachel, even though Rachel does not believe it, as evidenced in her note. It was important in this chapter for Rachel to finally understand that about Bruce. Of course, all that I just said is undercut greatly by the fact that Batman kills Two-Face, even though it was more justified than in _Batman Begins._ But that's okay – Batman and Bruce is not perfect.

Finally, reality becomes real to both Rachel and Bruce at the end, before they say good bye. If Rachel could somehow have know what would have happened in TDK after she died (what a weird hypothetical!), I think these two messages are the ones she would give to Bruce: that she's totally ok with him being Batman; and also urging him to have a life beyond. And that will be the central question of the final Nolan Batman movie: what will Bruce Wayne decide to do with the Batman.

The final paragraph is Bruce at his no-nonsense best: things are fine, and it's over.

**Edit: nontrivial revisions have been done, to correct lots of annoying grammar mistakes, and to strengthen the writing**

Chapter 8 – Epilogue

It is arguable everything goes in cycles, so even though Bruce has 'accepted' Rachel's death in Chapter 7, the cold reality when he returns to the real world is that, grief will never fully leave him (otherwise he would not be Bruce Wayne/Batman). But Bruce Wayne endures, because he must, and because he can.

**Edit: I have revised the ending substantially, to make it less happy. Bruce is now grateful for the chance to say goodbye to Rachel, but the goodbye is for good, and he grimly decides to move on to fight crime as both Bruce Wayne and Batman, more cognizant than before that all things must come to an end.**

* * *

Okay, that's the end of _Rachel Dawes_ and my thoughts. Long though it took to finish, I'm very happy about it. I'm eagerly awaiting the final movie, and like I said before, as the final movie in Nolan's trilogy I actually want to see Batman's story come to a definitive end; if it doesn't, it's not the end of the world, but I think a great ending will be the final capstone to an incredible series and its incredible story.

As for Rachel Dawes and fanfics, Rachel Dawes may be dead and gone here, but she's very much alive in _Two-Faces,_ my AU fanfic of what would have happened if Batman had saved Rachel in TDK! While she is very much saintly in _Rachel Dawes_, start reading _Two-Faces_ and see the coin flip to the other side, with a totally evil and nasty Rachel ready to kick ass and take names. A new chapter for that story will be coming this week, so until then, take care and keep reading!

Scruffy-Looking,  
July 3, 2011


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